Jayne's Chains

JAYNE'S CHAINS

By Sailor 861


Able Seaman Peter Metcalfe Jr., 19, was not a happy "jack." He and his 
brother, Philip, 18, ("Oggy-Oy" and "Oggy Oy-Oy" to their shipmates), had 
just returned to their RN base at Portsmouth, England, from daring, deadly 
rescues of their mother, Isabel, and friend, Moira, from a white slavery 
cartel in Ushwant, East Africa, and they had feared the worst - they were 
about to be paraded before their executive officer to answer to charges of 
being "adrift" more than five months -- which could mean "digger time" in 
H.M. Detention Barracks, fines and release.
The Metcalfes, members of the Royal Navy's clandestine Special Boat Squad, 
along with Hiram and Harry MacPeak, Moira's sons, and their fathers, Peter 
Sr., and Graham, were involved in the tortuous rescue of their loved ones in 
early 1976. The four sons had watched as their fathers were shot and killed 
during the rescue, an event matched only by the shocking scenes they had 
witnessed just moments earlier of seeing their mothers, 35 and 33, chained, 
naked, gagged and branded by slavers in the East African desert. (See The 
Perilous Adventures of Isabel and Moira)
But their bravery and determination, as well as evidence and testimony they 
gave at a subsequent trial, had sent 11 white slavers to prison for life and 
the Metcalfe and MacPeak lads, together with their mothers, still chained 
the way they were when kidnapped from a northern Scotland B and D retreat in 
the late summer of 1975, returned to Scotland to heroes' welcomes.
Although the feats had attracted attentions of media, high levels of 
government and police forces in Great Britain, Scotland, Europe and Africa, 
A/Bs Peter and Philip Metcalfe were, nevertheless, subject to the RN's code 
of service discipline and had to account for their extended AWOL. Thus, they 
found themselves, on a Wednesday morning in May 1976, in their No. 1 
uniforms with gold badges, fresh haircuts and polished shoes for XO's 
Defaulters at Portsmouth naval barracks.

When their turns came, they were marched in, ordered to "off caps" and face 
the stern, steely-eyed Lieutenant-Commander, John Walker, DSC, who asked 
them coldly to explain themselves after the charges were read out.

The young Metcalfes, undeterred by the executive officer's pervasive, 
cold-grey eyes, related the sordid details of their mother's kidnap, 
bondage, slavery and the valiant rescues they and their late fathers planned 
and carried out. One hour later, the incredulous officer said:
"This is the most fantastic story I have ever heard at my defaulters parade. 
To your credit, it has been in the press, together with photos of you with 
your mothers, and I have read some initial police reports and court 
documents that were provided to me. I have no doubt, then, as to the 
veracity and congruence of your accounts to the official documents and you 
are to be commended for your initiative and daring. However, you are still 
162 days 18 hours and 43 minutes absent without official leave and, 
therefore, guilty as charged. Mild letters of reprimand will be placed on 
your service files. Fines of one pound sterling each. Dismissed."
"Dismissed, aye-aye, sir," barked the short, stocky master-at-arms at his 
side with an incredulous look. "On caps. Right turn. Single file, quick 
MARCH! Left, right, left, right, left, right . . . ."
Lt.-Cmdr. Walker, a 25-year career man, shook his head wearily and wondered 
what the MacPeaks would tell him when he heard their cases next. The MacPeak 
boys were then marched in, charges read out and the young commandos gave 
their hair-raising adventure stories that corroborated those of the 
Metcalfes'. They were also found guilty of being AWOL 162 days, 19 hours and 
56 minutes, were rebuked with mild letters of reprimand and fines of one 
pound sterling each.
But just three days later, on a Friday afternoon, came a "messdeck buzz" 
that the Metcalfes and MacPeaks were to receive bravery decorations for 
their roles in releasing their mothers from slavery and that formal letters 
of commendation, signed by a vice-admiral, would be placed on their service 
documents.

As well, the four lads were to be promoted forthwith to the rank of leading 
seaman and that the abbreviation DSM (Distinguished Service Medal) would 
appear behind their names following investitures at Buckingham Palace at a 
later date.




The "rumor mill" had it that Ministry of Defence boffins were being nudged 
from on high to commend, rather than censure, the brave commandos. The 
daring Metcalfe - MacPeak exploits and "cooperation with the authorities" 
apparently had cast the RN and British police forces in a positive 
international light. Therefore, the junior servicemen were to be 
acknowledged formally for their devotion to duty, country and family.
Later, unsubstantiated "buzzes" about quantities of small arms, grenades, 
ammunition and thunder flashes, filched from H.M. Stores by the Metcalfe and 
MacPeak boys, went unheeded by the authorities and inventories were quietly 
amended or erased.
But it was Friday afternoon -- messdeck buzzes abounded, 48-hour leave was 
about to begin and Peter and Philip were happy and relieved when they 
stepped into their civvies and out the dockyard to the "Golden Fleece," a 
popular naval pub just outside Unicorn Gate, to celebrate their achievements 
and good luck in the traditional lower-deck manner of the Royal Navy.
Wednesday, it was XO's defaulters' parade and letters of reprimand; by 
Friday, they "could do no wrong" with a letters of commendation, promotions 
and "gongs" in the works for the young Scottish lads. They couldn't believe 
their good fortune and were amazed at the rapid turn of events.
Friday night was darts night at the "Fleece," a packed, smoky little pub 
just outside H.M. Dockyard, and Peter, with a "Black and Tan" in hand, 
quickly beheld a blonde Hampshire beauty, bank teller Jayne 
Beresford-Smythe, 22, standing alone at the bar, her long straight hair 
falling midway down her back in a golden cascade.
A/B Metcalfe was smitten - he had never before seen a lovelier lass and her 
curvy body, sexily understated by her snug, champagne turtleneck sweater and 
brown suede miniskirt that fell to mid-thigh, looked like the Page 3 pinup 
he had taped to the inside of his locker door at HMS Vernon.

Her shapely figure on a five.-ft. 3 3/4-in. frame, accentuated by the 
delicious curves of her 36-C breasts, made her the prettiest girl in the 
popular sailors' pub that night.
Jayne was sipping a small gin and tonic when Peter eased his 6-ft., 180-lb. 
frame up beside her to ask if she would be interested in joining him in a 
match of 501 at the navy's dartboard.


Fully expecting to be turned down flat, he was pleasantly surprised when she 
said:
"O-oh, all right; just one game because I can only stay out till 10. That's 
2200, right, sailor?" she said with a demure smile.
Peter thanked his lucky stars for this chance encounter with this gorgeous 
babe and the game was on. By 10 p.m., the game of 501 was still on and Peter 
and Philip had regaled Jayne with their stories about the recent rescue of 
their mothers from the Ushwant desert while the MacPeak lads engaged the 
somewhat older barmaids in deep conversation about their desert exploits. 
The Metcalfes left descriptions of their mothers' steel bondage hardware 
until the end of their stories, which Jayne had already read in the 
newspapers, but her curiosity about spending long periods - perhaps even a 
lifetime - in steel bondage was piqued.
"Your mother was chained throughout that terrible ordeal?" Jayne asked Peter 
incredulously. Her imagination quickly conjured pictures of harem slave 
women, in their 30s, wearing light, silvery chains and diaphanous, 
low-slung, hip-hugging harem skirts, demurely modest but never brazen. "Yes, 
they were and, in fact, they still are," Peter replied, leaving further 
details to Jayne's lively imagination.
Jayne had been raised and educated in rural Hampshire and at age 17, saw her 
first Hollywood B-movie, The Desert Hawk, a 1950 Universal Studios color 
film that showed Yvonne De Carlo as "Schehrazade" and four other 50s-vintage 
harem girls who were sold into slavery in chains.

Intrigued by the Saturday afternoon matinee's brief scenes of the 
20-something starlets in their garish costumes and heavy, black shackles, 
she wondered in bed later that night what it would be like to be chained in 
a harem, feeling the cool steel of rivetted handcuffs, leg irons and collars 
she saw in the cinema.
During the 77-minute movie, she placed the fingers of her left hand around 
her right wrist, imagining a steel shackle being snapped closed with cool 
finality and continued to wonder what being chained was really like.
She kept her bondage fantasies to herself afterwards for almost six years, 
until early 1975, when she saw in a dusty corner of a second-hand bookstore 
the bright-red cover of an HOM Inc. paperback, titled Chain Me Forever, by 
F. E. Campbell.
Red-faced and nervous with excitement, she bought the little, 200-page book 
for three pounds and read it through the same night. She re-read it, 
cover-to-cover, next night and picked it up again the following weekend, 
putting herself in Jennifer, the central character's place, over and over. 
She felt the cool chains Jennifer, the slave, felt and the shackles that 
hobbled her strides, wishing for a few moments she, too, was her or that 
Yvonne De Carlo-like character she saw years before at a Saturday show.
The teenager also wished some man would chain her as though she had been 
captured and had to surrender herself to his will. Her young heart beat 
faster as she stared at the air-brushed front-cover drawing of a chained, 
naked young woman and felt herself lured irresistibly into bondage 
fantasyland. She wished she could be that woman on the front cover, if only 
for a day - or a lifetime.
Then, one cold, wintry day, at age 19, while rummaging through a second-hand 
store and pawnshop in the older part of Portsmouth, she spotted a small pile 
of sturdy, tarnished silver chain which connected two heavy, D-shaped cuffs. 
Recognizing the little pile instantly, she picked up the cuffs and chains 
from the dusty shelf and nearly dropped it again, realizing they were a pair 
of leg irons with small-diameter cuffs for women (or small-boned men) with 
an 18-in. connecting chain.

She felt the weight of the shackles, a pair of 1930s Hiatt Darby cuffs, 
placed them back on the shelf with a light clunk and left the store 
immediately. Jayne was later intrigued by the sound, shape and weight of the 
cuffs in her hands and, driven by curiosity, returned to the store two days 
later, found the cuffs and chain were still where she left them and took 
them to the store owner at the front, feeling queasy with excitement.
"How much for these antiques?" she asked as casually as she could. "I've a 
collection of old locks and locksmith's tools and I thought . . . . "
"Ten pounds, miss," said the middle-aged storeowner brusquely. "They're an 
old pair of custom-made restraints brought in by the widow of a collector 
who had been a warder at HM Prison for Women at Dartmoor. They still work, 
they're a bit rusty but here's the key," he said, handing her the small, 
sturdy, right-hand-threaded screw key.
Taking the cylindrical key from him with a shaky hand, Jayne reached into 
her handbag and withdrew two, five-pound notes, handed them to the cashier 
without a word and dropped the 11/2-pound shackles into her handbag.
 The chains made a quiet clink and the storeowner gave Jayne a knowing wink, 
causing her to blush.
She left the shop without a word and hurried home, her chains tucked away in 
the bottom of her handbag. She had just purchased her very own pair of 
chains, she thought, and she was soon fantasizing about locking them onto 
her ankles that night alone in her bedroom once her parents were sound 
asleep. She wondered what it would feel like to be chained overnight. She 
wondered, too, what Yvonne De Carlo felt, or said, when she was having 
harem-girl chains locked on her wrists and ankles for the innumerable takes 
during the filming of The Desert Hawk 25 years previously. The film was just 
over an hour long, she had learned, and likely Miss De Carlo and the other 
starlets had to wear their chains for much longer than that as directors 
ordered scene after scene to be re-shot.
She also wondered what it would be like to be chained for the rest of her 
life, if she found the right man. Could Yvonne De Carlo have had the same 
thoughts as she acted beside the handsome hero figure, actor Richard Greene, 
in the 1950 flick?

At home, she hid her chains in her night table and at bedtime, after hearing 
her parents' door close quietly down the hall, silently withdrew them from 
the bottom drawer, put the key in full view under her bedside reading lamp 
and, as carefully as she could, snapped each cuff closed firmly around each 
ankle with a solid click.
Feeling the implacable, cool steel on her ankles was not the frightening 
experience she thought it would be. She felt the hard circumference of each 
steel shackle around her warm ankles and spread her legs to the 18-in. 
tolerance of her chain. She swung her legs out of bed and walked carefully 
around the end of her bed to walk the walk of a chained harem girl and she 
was thrilled deeply. Climbing into bed again, Jayne was not able to sleep 
that night, tossing and turning this way and that in her nightgown as she 
tried to get used to the unaccustomed clasp of steel around her slender 
ankles.
At 6 a.m. she finally dozed off, waking with a start at 9:30 a.m., Sunday 
morning, by her mother's voice telling her to get ready for Sunday breakfast 
and church.
She rose, unlocked her ankles with great difficulty and hid the shackles in 
the bottom of her bedroom closet underneath a pile of shoes and socks.
Her ankles bore slight red indentations from the overnight wearing of her 
shackles and she considered the minor welts a badge of initiation into her 
private world of steel bondage. Her parents, both bank employees, either did 
not notice the telltale slight abrasions on each ankle or did not want to 
ask if they did.
That was three years ago and she kept her chains out of sight but never out 
of mind. Too afraid to be found out or accidentally discovered, she limited 
her self-bondage to weekends only, looking forward to when her parents were 
away from home, to clasp the solid cuffs on her ankles and feeling their 
weight by walking slowly and carefully around her bedroom, even venturing 
from time to time out the hardwood-floored hallway to the bathroom and back 
again. The chains would made a fearful clatter on the wood floor and she 
hoped they did not leave any scratches on the polished English oak flooring.

Once in a while, she would take them out and examine them carefully for 
serial number, place and date of manufacture, noticing the serial number, 
JBS1933 - Birmingham, just below the British broad arrow on the top of each 
cuff. She took pride and effort to polish them and lubricate the sturdy 
locking mechanisms with light machine oil.
They were a classy but frightfully daunting piece of prison hardware for a 
young woman but Jayne was proud of her new possessions and she snapped them 
on her ankles at least two nights a week for the next three years. She only 
hoped she would not start sleepwalking or forget them and walk out into the 
hallway or downstairs with the 18-in. chain still on her ankles. Her dreams 
included sexy, little dramas that always included an element of bondage - 
every time she wore her chains to bed - and she started thinking seriously 
how to turn her dreams into reality. She dreamed repeatedly about being a 
harem slavegirl with chained ankles, working as a household servant and 
lover to the handsome sheik that owned her. She never pined for escape in 
her dreams but preferred the strong grasp of her owner's hands and the 
implacable clasp of steel as she danced for him or made love in their gauzy 
Arabian Nights suite.
Her parents never found out their daughter's steel-bondage/Arabian Nights 
fetish although her mother once asked Jayne whether she was sleeping all 
right at night, concerned only with the tossing and turning she heard from 
time to time and the odd clinks and squeaks from her bedframe. 

Jayne blushed, said nothing and her mother, an attractive woman in her 40s, let 
the matter drop.
Unknown to Jayne, her mother, Catherine Beresford-Smythe, had experimented 
with steel bondage when she, too, was a young woman and she and Bill, her 
husband, had a pair of handcuffs and leg irons stashed in their nighttable 
for "bedtime fun and games," as Mrs. B. would tell him when her submissive 
mood would overtake her from time to time.

Then, in late 1975, when the first news stories emerged about Isabel's and 
Moira's bondage, kidnap and release, Jayne began turning her playtime 
fantasies of steel bondage into full-time, permanent bondage.
But first, she would need some guidance and maybe, just maybe, Peter's 
mother, Isabel, could be the source of experience and advice.
She, of course, would not tell Peter any of this -- after all, it was Last 
Call at the Golden Fleece -- but she quietly hoped Peter would be interested 
in seeing her again.
As Peter walked her to the taxistand outside the pub front door, leaning 
against her to sneak his first goodnight kiss, Jayne said suddenly, "Call me 
at 01-555-6869 tomorrow after six and let's talk," Jayne said intriguingly 
as she turned to bid him goodnight, giving him a peck on the cheek just 
before she slid into the back seat of a black Austin taxicab.
"Cor, what a day and week this has been, eh?" Peter said to his brother, 
Phil, as they drained the last of their Black and Tan inside the bar. 
"Here's this 'bint' I hardly know and she wants me to ring her up tomorrow 
night to talk. I wonder what about?"
"Wait 'n' see, mate," said Phil and they walked out of the pub back to the 
barracks room they shared at HMS Vernon.

THE NEXT NIGHT
Saturday night, Peter dialled Jayne's number and they agreed to meet for a 
drink at an upscale restaurant-bar in a high-rise hotel near the harbour in 
two hours.
Jayne, a teller at the local Barclay's Bank, had been immediately attracted 
to Peter and his commando stories of derring-do but, for the moment, she was 
more interested in seeing where their conversation would take them, secretly 
hoping she could arrange to see and talk to his mother. 

The prospect of life in permanent steel bondage was at once terrifying but exciting and she 
wanted to explore her nascent fantasies even further tonight and in the 
following days and weeks.

After the preliminaries, Jayne nudged the conversation toward Peter's 
mother, Isabel (below), and her friend, Moira.
"How are they recovering from their desert ordeal?" she asked.
"They're as well as could be expected," Peter replied vaguely. "They've 
lived in fear for their lives, 24 hours a day, seven days a week, for almost 
six months so you know they'll not get better overnight.
"They're both seeing psychologists and the doctors tell Phil and me they're 
making slow but steady progress. But they're having nightmares, you know; 
flashbacks, that sort of thing. The diagnosis is post-traumatic stress 
disorder and they are receiving counselling, medications -- it will be a 
while."
"Oh, my," Jayne replied. "That is positively appalling." She turned sadly to 
the young sailor and said: "Please extend my very best wishes to your mother 
when you talk to her next and that I wish her the speediest of recoveries. 
Moira, too."
"I'll certainly do that, Jayne," Peter replied, and they looked out at the 
darkling sky over historic Portsmouth harbor, both anxious to change the 
subject for the moment.
Peter then told Jayne about the week's activities - XO's defaulters, 
slap-on-the-wrist punishments and the extreme turn of events - 
commendations, promotions and investitures at Buckingham Palace - that 
prefaced their meeting 24 hours ago.
Jayne was agog and enthralled by Peter's stories and wry sense of humor and 
she felt again that strange, warm urge in her loins as she looked at his 
handsome, tanned young face.
"Could this be the man who would put me in chains?" she asked herself as she 
turned to look at the glimmering lights of ships coming and going in the 
deepening dusk. "He's young, handsome, healthy and looks not at all like 
that Hollywood-cast desert sheik (played by Richard Greene) I saw in that 
movie a few years ago. But he has had the experience - migod, seeing his 
mother in chains - and, well, let's just see where we go from here . . . ." 
Jayne's inner voice quieted for a moment.

Then after a couple of drinks, some dancing and more first-date chat, Jayne 
asked him quietly at their window table, a hint of longing creeping into her 
voice: "What do you think of bondage, Peter? Please tell me. You've seen 
some firsthand, in a rather alarming way, but does the thought of steel 
bondage on a woman attract you? Or does it repel?"
Peter did not know how to answer at first. The sight of his 35-year-old 
mother, ring-gagged and chained in an African desert cell a few months ago 
was one of the most disturbing, unforgettable things he had ever seen. 
Nothing in his commando training had prepared him for that sight he would 
never forget that night raid on the small cellblock that held his mother and 
her friend that cost the lives of his father, Peter Sr., and Graham MacPeak, 
his best friend.
Seeing his mum bound like that did not repel him; rather, in the heat of 
action it had galvanised him and his brother to free her bonds from the 
stone wall of her prison cell and do everything they could to effect escape 
from the desert palace compound. He admitted to himself later that he was 
amazed at the quiet acceptance his mum and her friend had displayed when 
they told their sons they were chained indefinitely, or until science found 
a way to unfasten their unusual bonds.
He recalled a quiet conversation he had had with his mother after the 
rescue: "It's been hard for us, Peter, very hard," she wept. "Moira and I 
were worked like animals in chains. We were never beaten but we were 
chained, as you see, and branded. Now, we've had to come to the realization 
that our chains do not come off.
"I told you before we were kidnapped what the experts said about my ankle 
chains," she went on, drying her tears with her chained hands, "you know, 
the ones put on by the aliens, and now, these additional chains here and 
here," she said, pointing to her wrists and legs, carefully avoiding mention 
of her curvy bosom which sported chains as well as the heavy rings that had 
been surgically pierced through her vaginal lips.

"Well, fate has had its way, the scientists have had their say and, for now, 
the day-to-day part of living with these bits of steel and chain is up to us 
- as soon as we get the hell out of Africa.
"You, Philip and me are family and we need to maintain that bond. I know 
that these 'accessories' I've been forced to wear will, sooner or later, 
become just that -- accessories.
"Like it or not, Moira and I will have to come to accept our chains as a 
part of who we are - perhaps for the rest of our lives -- or at least until 
science finds a way to remove them.
Until that happens, or doesn't, we are going to try and not let them 
interfere with our lives. Life's too short, as our husbands found out, and 
Moira and I are determined not to let these events of the past intimidate 
our present or in any way diminish the enjoyment of our lives in future." 
Peter nodded, remembering his mother's quiet, heartfelt soliloquy.
The recalled conversation continued: "We've worn them now for just over six 
months.
"Sure, they may make a little noise, they may make us walk with shorter 
strides and we hold our arms and hands differently but that's all.
"I may be chained outwardly but, inside, I am still free. I am still your 
mother, and Moira's good friend, and those things will never change. Your 
father and Graham MacPeak were killed during your valiant rescues of us and 
for that we will always be grateful. But for today, we must know, understand 
and come to accept these chains as realities, something to live with and, 
eventually, just ignore.
"Help me understand, too, Peter," she had said, as she leaned against him 
seeking his embrace and welcomed, comforting kiss.
The tanned, slim and beautiful face over her implacable, steel-grey collar 
and her soft Gaelic brogue faded from his imagination for a moment and Peter 
Metcalfe faced Jayne again, silhouetted by the window overlooking historic 
Portsmouth harbor.
He was not ready to tell this beautiful Hampshire blonde his mother's 
secrets and her dilemma -- although Jayne desperately wanted to know -- and 
he stalled for time, trying to phrase his answer to Jayne's question.
He looked into her pale-blue eyes and said, finally:
"My mum and her friend, and us boys have had some difficult realities to 
confront, in Africa and at home in Scotland, Jayne," he said. "It's not easy 
seeing your loved one in chains and they are still trying to come to terms 
with the steel, or whatever metal it is, that binds them. I can only say 
they are getting professional help from very good psychologists and I 
understand they are on the slow road to recovery.




"The psychologists, who are guiding mum and Moira through the healing 
processes, have told me they, like many other victims of crime, are having 
to come to terms with two lives -- the life they had, and enjoyed, before 
their kidnapping and the life they must accept afterwards. As victims, they 
are probably asking whether they brought their abductions on themselves. Or 
could they have avoided them? Those are difficult questions and only mum and 
her friend can answer.
"I talk to mum every weekend; in fact, I'll be calling her tomorrow morning 
to see how her week was. All I can do is support her, listen, be a good son 
for her and help her as she tries to recover from . . . . "
He looked away and Jayne put a hand on his brawny, tanned forearm in comfort 
and to introduce her next question.
"Peter, it looked like you were a thousand miles away just now," Jayne said 
softly as she, too, became lost in sudden thought. "I can only guess what 
must be going through your mind now, dealing with your mother's condition 
and the recent deaths of your father and his best friend and I beg you to 
forgive my intrusions. But there is something inside me that is driving my 
curiosity. You see, I don't know how to say this, but I can empathize with 
your mother and her friend, Moira, on a more-than-casual level." Jayne's 
ankles began to ache slightly in a suddenly odd recall of the clutch of her 
shackles from the night before.

She continued: "They sound to me like very courageous women. They must be 
trying desperately to turn their dreadful crises and ordeals into something 
they can live with. I would like to explore that with them and, I sincerely 
hope, help them in their recovery. I would like to speak with and meet your 
mother -- if she is willing and you approve - to talk about this incredible 
inner strength she has to deal with and accept her fate and her bondage."
Peter listened carefully as the lithe, young blonde bank teller went on.
"I'll be frank," Jayne said, mustering every bit of Dutch courage her two 
large gins-and-tonic gave her, and began to vent her innermost feelings: 
"You see, I have been attracted by the fantasy of being chained for a day, a 
week, a month, or even a year, ever since I was a teenager when I saw my 
first motion picture at Portsmouth Towne Cinema that showed some old 1950s 
picture of harem girls in chains.
"I internalized those images and saw myself as one of them.
"I scarcely know you and I don't want to go into a lot of detail just now 
but I am wondering if I might be able to talk to your mother at some time in 
the future about this . . . . ?"
"Perhaps you and my mother are kindred spirit," Peter interjected. "Mum's 
35, going on 36, and you're 22 but that is not an issue. Your interest in my 
mum shows you are probably concerned not only for her welfare but that you 
are seeking expression for your own curiosity about bondage. Your situation 
is curiosity-driven; my mother's is reality. You are wondering what it would 
be like to be chained while mum is trying to come to terms with s lifetime 
in chains.
"It appears you and my mother are a study in contrasts - you at the 
exploratory end and my mother at the receiving end - and, yes, I think you 
two should meet, subject to my mother's approval and her doctor's 
recommendation.
"I'm running off a bit at the mouth, Jayne, but let's think about what I 
just said," Peter said finally, speaking with a mature candor that belied 
his 19 years.

Peter's achingly straightforward talk about his mother and himself gave 
Jayne an uncommon sense of continuance and well-being. She considered 
herself a "liberated" young woman of the 1970s but their heartfelt talk and 
revelations were leading her into another realm for which she was 
unprepared. She needed a man, physically and emotionally, and she felt 
herself being drawn to this young sailor.
"You must have done well in English studies during your school years, 
Peter," she asked politely. "Yes, straight Bs in oral, reading and writing 
comprehension and expression," he replied, wondering at the sudden change of 
subject. "Thank you for asking."
"It shows," she said with a quiet smile. "You have an excellent command of 
the English language and you can communicate your thoughts very well. Maybe 
you should be a writer. Or a journalist?"
Peter laughed and said: "Nay, dear lady, I signed on for 12 years in the 
'andrew' and I've got 10 to go. What happens in that 'tenner' is hard to 
say. Right now, I'm just looking after mum and me and Phil as best I can."
Jayne was inwardly pleased with the self-confident articulation of this 
young sailor seated beside her and she hoped they would become fast friends, 
possibly lovers.
It was only their first date, however, and she was going to 
play it cool and reel this guy in slowly. She wanted him and she also wanted 
to speak to his mother about her needs to be restrained in steel.
Their first date passed all too quickly and, soon, it was "Last Call" in the 
trendy little bar on the 12th floor of an upscale high-rise hotel near the 
waterfront. Peter and Jayne walked out, arm in arm, and Peter hailed a taxi 
to take Jane home to her parents' house in rural Hampshire, about 15 miles 
outside Portsmouth. The two snuggled in the back seat as the little black 
Austin purred along the main highway to the city outskirts and turned right 
off the A-3 onto a small, dark country lane. Peter noticed Jayne was not 
wearing a bra as he traced the outside curve of her soft, shapely 36-C 
breasts with his fingers, much to the delight of Jayne, while the taxi 
driver concentrated on the road ahead.

Jayne squeezed against peter's muscular frame and pressed her breasts hard 
against his chest as she swung her arms around his tanned neck, embracing 
him tightly.
Hold me tightly," Jayne whispered as the taxi motored on. Jayne's 
relationship with Peter was about to begin - but not before Peter's 
temporary duty to an aircraft carrier sent into the western Atlantic.

AND THEN . . . .
Monday morning, Peter and Phil were ordered pack their bags and ship out to 
HMS Hermes to participate in the US Bicentennial celebrations in New York 
City, July 4, 1976, where they both hoped to see the newly-constructed World 
Trade Center towers -- the twin pylons of prosperity that dominated lower 
Manhattan and New York City harbor. Jayne had agreed she would write to 
Peter three times a week as long as he wrote back faithfully. Jayne and 
Peter's budding love affair quickly became a long-distance exchange of 
torrid sex-and-romance letters during the carrier's three-month deployment 
and when Peter wrote back saying they were due to return to Portsmouth at 
the end of July, Jayne wanted to surprise him the best way she knew.
She would wear her new, long summer skirt -- and her ankle chains -- for the 
first time in public. She would not tell Peter and he would make his own 
discoveries when they met again in a few weeks.


Jayne had purchased the long, gracefully flowing summer dress from a trendy 
shop in downtown Portsmouth while Peter was away and tried it on in her room 
the day she bought it to see if the ankle-length hemline would cover her 
ankle shackles. Slipping out of her blue jeans and T-shirt and into her 
long, off-white light summer dress, she knelt and snapped the heavy chains 
on her ankles with practised ease. Standing in front of her full-size 
bedroom mirror, she smoothed the dress down and checked with a critical eye 
to make sure the hemline covered the shackles. Satisfied it did, even when 
she took full, 18-in. steps, she stopped, knelt again and unlocked the 
shackles again.

She then went out to the dining room table, sat and wrote a long, romantic 
letter back to Peter saying she would meet the ship when it docked in HM 
Dockyard, Portsmouth, on the scheduled date and that she wanted to take him 
on an all-expenses-paid trip to London that weekend during which time, she 
hoped, he could arrange for her to see his mum in Scotland if he had enough 
leave.
Peter got her airmail at sea a couple of days later, found a quiet spot on 
the hangar deck, read it through and through and wrote back immediately 
giving Jayne the public details of the ship's estimated time of arrival in 
the dockyard. After his request for seven days' out-of-port long leave was 
approved in the ship's regulating office, he then was able to confirm Jayne 
could meet his mother, in rural western Scotland, and that his mother was 
looking forward to meeting her, despite Isabel's convalescence in bondage. 
Peter also wrote the hope their budding relationship would turn into 
something mutually more serious and, ever ambitious, he quietly planned to 
look for a diamond ring for Jayne after the ship returned.
Plans for the Isabel - Jayne - Peter family gathering were set well before 
HMS Hermes turned bows eastward toward the UK in late July and young Peter 
started inquiring of his older shipmates about how and where to buy a 
suitable diamond ring for his fiancee-to-be.
"Check the shops at Knightsbridge," he was told. "Pricey, you bet, but 
that's where you'll find the 'rock' for her."




Meanwhile, as the aircraft carrier was crossing the Atlantic, Jayne spent 
hours each night practising her sexy, new walk in chained ankles. She hoped 
not to draw attention to herself when she ventured into public for the first 
time in chains to meet Leading Seaman Peter Metcalfe when HMS Hermes was to 
berth at HM Dockyard, Portsmouth, in just two short weeks. The only drawbacks, she noted, 
were the obvious, shorter strides she had to take and the occasional clink 
and clatter of the chains on the floor.

She was determined, however, to wear her chains to greet the ship on its 
return, realizing, too, there probably would be hundreds on the dock with 
her but she didn't care; her fantasies had brewed long enough and now, she 
wanted to give Peter her strongest message yet about her desire to explore 
this powerful bondage fantasy to the fullest, with him and, she hoped, his 
mother, as soon as possible.

WHERE'ER YOU WALK
August 7, 1976, dawned grey and misty over Portsmouth harbor as Hermes 
steamed into the Solent and met the four naval tugboats that would nudge the 
big carrier into its berth.
Jayne had been up since 6:30 a.m., with her parents out of town on a 
business trip, had listened to the vessel-traffic update on BBC Radio One 
and was showered, chained, dressed and ready to go by 8:30 a.m., well before 
the 11 a.m. arrival of the big, light-grey aircraft carrier alongside.
She had already packed a bag for a week-long tryst she had arranged in 
London and the planned trip to western Scotland with her handsome, 
6-ft.,sailor. She checked once to make sure the keys to her ankle chains 
were on the nighttable beside her overnight bag before she went into the 
kitchen for tea and toast. After cleaning up from her light snack, she 
checked her appearance as well as her securely-chained ankles in the hallway 
mirror for the last time, nabbed her bag from her bedroom, and clinked 
quickly out of the house for the first time. She locked the front door and 
stepped out into the bright morning sunlight, her chains rattling quietly on 
the wood front porch as she stepped down onto the front walk. She had 
practised walking in chains for almost two years, inside the house only, and 
had become quite proficient at disguising her snubbed strides. Or so she 
thought.

There was no one about as she quickly and easily walked the short distance 
to her little Ford Escort and, looking to her left and right, slipped into 
the righthand driver's seat awkwardly, sitting on the seat first, then 
pulling her legs in after her.
"This is going to take some work," Jayne said to herself, annoyed, as she 
smoothed her long dress under her. She then started up, reversed and drove 
down the narrow, old rural road that branched to the busy A-3 London - 
Portsmouth throughway.
Her adventure in steel bondage was about to begin -and the keys to her ankle 
chains were exactly where she had left them - sitting on her nighttable, 
forgotten in her excitement to get to the naval dockyard's carrier berth.
The 45-minute drive into Portsmouth was uneventful and she glanced at her 
ankles from time to time, noticing the little pile of sturdy grey-silver 
links on the floor between her shoes. She minded the 80 km/h speed limit all 
the way, mindful she did not want to be pulled over and ticketed for 
speeding, chained the way she was.
No one could see them, anyway, she thought, particularly those 
"cock-and-eyeball" truck drivers in rigs that towered over her little car, 
and she became more confident she would pull this little caper off easily. 
In the city, she followed the roadsigns to HM Dockyard, stopped at the 
vehicular traffic gate and showed ID to the military policeman standing 
there and was directed to the large public parking lot about a quarter-mile 
away from the aircraft carrier's berth. She found a spot, looked at her 
watch and saw Hermes, with crew members lining the flight deck, off in the 
harbor approaches in the bright summer sunlight. The distant, stirring 
strains of "Viscount Nelson," a naval march she recognized, reached her ears 
from the Band of HM Royal Marines, playing their hearts out on the flight 
deck as the big carrier drew nearer.
She had about a half-hour to walk the distance to the milling, happy crowd 
on the jetty and figured she had lots of time. This was to be her first long 
venture in public with chained ankles -- in HM Dockyard, of all places -- 
and she became apprehensive as women, children and others walked by her car 
en route to watch the carrier come in to greet their husbands, fathers and 
sons.




She waited until the crowd thinned a bit, then stepped out of the car, 
taking time to make sure her dress fell back properly around her ankles, 
locked her door and stepped out toward the dock, her chains making a light 
clink and clatter on the stone pavement. She pressed on, resolute in her 
18-in.-strides, and thought she might be cutting the time pretty short. She 
noticed her shorter strides made her hips swivel more than usual in her 
haste, and her braless breasts to sway sexily underneath her light top, but 
she pressed on, arriving at the dock exerted by her quarter-mile walk - her 
first -- with short, chained strides. No one gave her a second glance as she 
squeezed her way past women, boys and girls to find a vantage point near the 
jetty's big, red bollards.
She had about 10 minutes to spare. The carrier, about 200 yards off the 
dock, was being nudged slowly alongside by four tugs and she looked hard for 
Peter, handsome in his square rig, among the hundreds of other sailors and 
marines lining the flight-deck perimeter.
She thought she saw him. There. Look! That sailor, up there, ninth, maybe 
10th from the left, among the Royal Marines near the island superstructure.
"Peter! Peter!! Over here," she called out, waving her arm. Peter saw Jayne 
from his position high up on the flight deck by the island and waved back, 
blowing her a kiss only as the crew were forbidden to call back to their 
loved ones on the dock. A light onshore breeze rumpled her dress and she 
struggled quickly to ensure her hemline did not blow up past her ankles. She 
was becoming more self-conscious about her self-bondage but everyone else 
around her was looking out for their loved ones as the big, light-grey mass 
of the aircraft carrier loomed closer.
After a lifetime of manoeuvres, shouted and repeated orders and 
linehandling, the 23,000-ton carrier and its crew of 2,000 were finally 
alongside and gangways were noisily rigged fore and aft for officers and 
other ranks respectively.

Peter signalled and mouthed for Jayne to make her way towards the after 
gangway, which she did, and moments later she stood at the foot of the 
steep, narrow steel gangway, wondering how she was going to climb in long 
dress and chains.
Bravely, she stepped forward just as she heard a little boy's voice behind: 

"Garn, lookit, marm; that lady's got chains or summat on her legs. She a 
prisoner or summat?"
The boy's mother quickly told him to hush and Jayne, blushing deeply, 
pretended not to hear as she continued to make her careful way up the narrow 
gangway, wincing as her chains caught and clattered on the steel 
reinforcement pads built into the gangway deck. Arriving at the top of the 
gangway a full minute later, puffing, she was forced to hop a two-ft. step 
down onto the deck of the aircraft carrier. She took a breath, closed her 
eyes and hopped down with a metallic clash as her chain met the steel 
plating, her braless breasts bobbling violently under her dress, to the 
delight of the gangway staff.
Above, the Royal Marines band was playing stirring naval music on the flight 
deck as families and friends of the ship's company trooped on board around 
Jayne.
The smiling, young quartermaster was at her side in an instant. He saluted 
her, as a naval compliment, and politely asked: "May I help yer, mizz?"
"Yes, could you please call Leading Seaman Metcalfe, of the commandos, to 
the gangway? Thank you," she said, above the strains of the naval march "On 
the Quarterdeck."
"Aye, aye, mizz," he replied, and walked smartly over to the nearby ship's 
"tannoy" (internal broadcast) microphone and repeated her request, "Leading 
Seaman Metcalfe, of the commandos, brow," that resounded throughout the 
aircraft carrier, much to Jayne's surprise.
Moments later, Peter appeared, red-faced and perspiring from his 50-yard 
dash from his position on the flight deck to the after gangway. Their 
three-months' absence and steady stream of correspondence had deepened each 
other's knowledge, respect and affection and they were overjoyed to see each 
other again.

Peter took Jayne's hand, clutching it to his uniformed chest, and gave her a 
passionate, welcoming kiss in front of the small groups of people clustered 
round the gangway.
Jayne and Peter turned and looked upward at the deckhead as the Royal 
Marines band, on the flight deck above, struck up a stirring slow march, 
"Where'er You Walk," by G. F. Handel. Jayne recognized it instantly from her 
elementary-school music studies and her heart thrilled, clutching Peter's 
right hand, as she repeated the sublime words to herself:
Where'er you walk, cool gales shall fan the glade;
Trees, where you sit, shall crowd into a shade.
Where'er you tread, the blushing flowers shall rise,
And all things flourish where'er you turn your eyes.

The band completed its splendid rendition of the operatic interlude and 
Peter, looking at his sweetheart, quietly classified the musical moment and 
their sentimental reunion a defining instant that augured well for their 
relationship. Jayne sniffed as she wiped a tear from her eye. She managed a 
brave smile for Peter who was, himself, moved by poignancy of their 
intimate, little moment on the crowded aircraft carrier gangway.
Jayne felt a little embarrassed wearing ankle chains this day but she was 
here, they were on her ankles and the key was sitting on her nighttable at 
home, about 40 miles away, in rural Hampshire. The key was the last thing on 
her mind right now.
"I've got to go below and get changed, Jayne," Peter said urgently. "Will 
you come down with me or wait up here?"
Jayne thought for a moment and considered she would have some difficulty 
negotiating the ladders and hatches with her chained ankles. Finally, she 
said, "Yes, I'll come below but I can't very well descend ladders and all 
with my dress and . . . . "

"No problem, sweetheart, the crew's recreation space is just one deck below 
and . . . . "
"Peter, my ankles are chained," she whispered in his ear. "I put them on 
specially for you today."
Peter was nonplussed but quickly rallied: "Wait 'ere, Jayne; I'll do the 
fastest change into civvies you've ever seen."
With that, and a peck on the cheek, he disappeared down a passageway and 
re-emerged just three minutes later, wearing blazer, dress shirt, slacks and 
loafers, his hair neatly combed and a splash of Aqua Velva leaving a 
telltale scent.
He was ready to go ashore; he deposited his station card and a copy of his 
leave form in the crew's large peg-board at the gangway and took Jayne's 
hand to guide her back down the long, steep gangway.
In a few minutes, Jayne and Peter were back, safely and together, at Jayne's 
little Ford Escort in the parking lot about a quarter-mile away. 
Jayne's ankles had begun to ache a little but she was determined not to let them 
bother her.
Things had happened incredibly fast for both young people and it was Jayne 
who took charge:
"I've reserved a double room for us in the Europa Hotel in Grosvenor Square, 
London, as my welcome-home for you, Peter. I've been planning this for weeks 
and . . . . "
"Let's go, Jayne," Peter replied happily. "I've got a weeks' out-of-port 
leave, meaning I, er we, can go up home to Scotland, too, if you want. I've 
written mum, she's doing well and she is looking forward to meeting you, oh, 
yes!"
It was the opportunity Jayne had hoped for. She, too, had booked a week off 
at Barclay's in anticipation of the reunion and she smiled happily as she 
unlocked the driver's door and slid behind the wheel, smoothing her dress 
underneath as she reached over to unlock the left-hand passenger door for 
Peter who threw his attache cased into the back seat and slid in.

Jayne started up the little white car and they were off to the A-3 and the 
City of London, about an hour away.
Traffic was light on the bustling, four-lane highway and Jayne and Peter 
talked about themselves, their lives, their jobs, their passions and each 
other. Before they knew it, Jayne had driven up to the front door of the 
Europa Hotel and parked. Jayne got easily out of her door and the valet 
carried their bags into the lobby where Jayne and Peter registered as Mrs. 
And Mrs. Metcalfe, of Portsmouth, England, for two nights.
Jayne now could feel the11/2-pound weight of her chains on her ankles as she 
walked, as quietly as she could on Peter's arm, to the elevator and ascended 
to the 6th floor. Their bags were already in the room and Peter and Jayne 
were alone for the first time in many weeks.
Jayne wandered casually over to the huge picture window overlooking a busy 
London street and Peter walked up beside her, put his powerful arm around 
her waist and held her closely.
"Jayne, I would like us to take our relationship a step further these next 
few days and I hope you will approve of what I am about to tell you," Peter 
said quietly. 


"I've been searching for the right woman for many months now - 
someone I can share my life, my past, present and future with -- and I am 
hoping that person is you. I have picked out a diamond ring for you at a 
jeweller's in Knightsbridge . . . contacted the store by airmail at sea and 
they have set aside a big engagement ring for us, er, you.
"I would like you to wear a diamond as a symbol of my everlasting love and 
affection for you. I'm hoping we will find time to pop down to 
Knightsbridge, maybe not today, but while we're up here. I've been saving my 
pay since we left the US and . . . . "
Jayne smiled shyly and held him closely, her ankle chains making a small 
rustle as she slid her body into his manly curves.

"Not so fast, sailor," she said lightly. "I want you to see you in bed first 
and then we'll see about this ring; and yes, Peter, I accept your 
engagement. I, too, have been looking for the right man and I hope I have 
found him today.
"I would love to marry you," she said softly.
With those passionate, enduring words, Jayne took the initiative and reached 
behind her dress, slid the long zipper down her back and let her long white 
dress slip off her shoulders to the carpeted floor, revealing her chained 
nudity to Peter's eyes for the first time.
Peter's eyes were drawn instantly to Jayne's and he passionately embraced 
her, his thick cock rising to the occasion. He kissed her once, twice, three 
times, and began to explore inner and outer curves of her neck and moved 
downward to her rising, hardened pink nipples. Looking down further still, 
he caught his first glimpse of the cool silver-grey shackles adorning his 
woman's ankles. Jayne had her feet about 12-in. apart and the heavy steel 
manacles rested just above her ankle bones, small pink abrasions and 
indentations showing from her half-mile walk in the dockyard.
"Jayne aren't those heavy for you to wear hours on end? My word, they look 
heavy to me."
"Mmm," Jayne said quietly, "not really," as she returned his embrace in 
front of the big, curtained front window of their 6th-floor hotel room.
Five minutes later, they were making passionate love in the big, soft double 
bed, Peter's deep thrusts bringing Jayne to a series of ear-burning, 
eye-watering orgasms she had yet experienced. 

Too soon, it was over and the lovers lay in each other's arms, gasping for 
breath and feeling each other's overheated bodies for the first time.
Peter was semi-erect after his draining orgasm and Jayne wanted more. She 
turned around and straddled his hips, bouncing athletically up and down a 
couple of times to lubricate Peter's now-rigid cock, then pulled off and 
slid forward slightly before sitting down on him firmly again, impaling her 
pussy with her own strength.

Peter, now fully astonished at the sexual drive and physical prowess of this 
demure, chained bank teller, lay back and engaged Jayne's eyes as never 
before. Jayne, now fully seated and rocking back and forth, the entire, 
11-in. length of Peter's ramrod-hard cock nestling deep inside her, bent 
forward, her 36-C breasts pendulous against Peter's chest, and kissed him 
hard on the lips. She pumped him dry a second time and both held each other 
tightly as the bed creaked and rocked with their wild poundings.
Jayne made a mental note of the four mind-blowing orgasms she had in the one 
hour of animated lust that swept up Peter and Jayne into a frenzy of sexual 
energy and emotion.
Exhausted, bathed in sweat and panting, Jayne caressed Peter's muscular 
chest and both were silent, considering the enormous sexual energy each had 
just depleted. Jayne stretched her ankles slowly, savoring the clutch of the 
warm steel on her ankles, as Peter caressed the sensuous, inner planes of 
her shapely thighs and breasts.
"Mmm," Jayne said finally. "And what do you think of my chains anyway? All 
you have said was you thought they were heavy. I can easily solve that by 
simply unlocking them. I packed the key in my bag."
With that, Jayne threw back the bedsheet, slid out of bed, clinked her way 
over to her bag and dug through the contents, looking for that special, old 
key that would free her.
After a minute of more hectic searching and digging, she announced: "The 
key! It's not here. I must have left it at home. Oh, dear, and that's almost 
two hours' away.
"Oh, Peter, dear, would you mind awfully if I continued to wear them for a 
little while, at least until we can get back to mum and dad's, so I can 
unlock myself?"


"No, not at all, Jayne; in fact, you look extraordinarily sexy in them and 
I'm glad they do not bother you at all. I love the way they make you walk 
and move. And make love!!"
Jayne smiled and nodded, proud over her self, finally, that she had worn her 
antique shackles for her man after all -- and that he had approved. She, 
too, had felt the hardened-steel manacles on her ankles throughout their 
passionate lovemaking and felt, for a fleeting moment, like that harem girl 
of her dreams years ago.

"You know, I don't think I want to go back home to get that key after all, 
Peter," Jayne said after a short pause. "I've wanted to know for many years 
what steel bondage felt like. What making mad, passionate love with a man I 
am deeply in love with felt like. And now I know.
"Now, please understand I'm not your typical submissive slavegirl who asks 
to be bound and fucked at every turn; far from it. I'm just a rather 
ordinary woman with a rather extraordinary fantasy about being bound in 
steel -- as long as that person who binds me is someone like you, someone I 
care about and have a caring relationship with."
"Jayne, you have this admirable, disarming quality for being so frank about 
your inner self - your fantasies, your sexuality and your personality," 
Peter said, rolling onto his left side to face her. His cock became more 
tumescent as he caught her ankle chain in the his toes and toyed with them 
briefly, bringing a smile of delight to Jayne's tousled, pretty face.
Jayne untangled her chain from his right foot, slithered out of the bed with 
a rustle of steel and headed to the bathroom in her short strides to tidy up 
for their trip into Knightsbridge, London's fashionable shopping district. 
Peter heard her chains clash on the bathtub as she stepped into shower and 
was immediately turned on by the sound of rushing water and clinking chain 
and Jayne turned this way and that, soaping her fine, athletic body. He 
imagined her feeling the hot water run down her firm body in rivulets as his 
semen oozed out of her deepest love passage.
Ten minutes later, she emerged in a mid-length terrycloth hotel dressing 
gown, her hair in a towel, and sat in front of the large-mirrored dressing 
table to re-do her makeup.
It was, after all, a pretty strenuous afternoon and she had to look her best 
for Peter when they went shopping.
"Peter, darling, do you think my ankle shackles make me look sluttish?" 
Jayne asked semi-seriously. "I've never worn them this long before and I'm 
wondering what you think."

Five-hundred miles to the northwest, Isabel Metcalfe, Peter's mother, was 
looking critically at her reflection in the full-length bathroom mirror. 
She, too, asked the same question. "Do these chains make me look like a 
slut? Like a whore? Or like a slave?" she asked herself aloud. "Ah, woman; 
thy name is vanity,' he said softly, turning this way and that, looking at 
her face, body and the chains that clutched her at neck, wrists, nipples, 
vagina and ankles.
Mrs. Isabel Metcalfe, recently turned 36, was alone and widowed after a 
miraculous rescue from captivity in the East African desert in early 1976.
Several months previously, she and her best friend, Moira MacPeak, were 
drugged by slavers and collared; their wrists were chained; their ankles 
were chained; a 30-in. chain connected their ankle chain to a vaginal ring 
placed in them under anaesthesia; then their nipples were pierced and 
chained before they were given enormous (48G from 38C) breast-augmentation 
surgery (read The Perilous Adventures of Isabel and Moira) -- all in 
preparation for their sale as beasts of burden in the Ushwant desert.
Fourteen months ago, on June 11, 1975, she had arrived home with ankle 
shackles and nipple rings mysteriously welded on her following alien 
encounter (see Through Night to Light) just down the road from home.
Her experiences, and her chains, would have driven another woman to drink, 
drugs or worse. But Isabel was resolute.
She lifted her 12-in. handcuffed wrists to her huge, heavy breasts for the 
second time in a moment and said, aloud:
"I am chained at wrist and ankle -- but I am not a slave.
"I have these great tits for a man's eye -- but I will never be a slut.
"My pussy and nipples are pierced and chained -- but I still seek pleasure 
there.
"I am still Isabel Metcalfe," she whispered. "I'm still alive and vibrant in 
this body and I am cared for by my sons, my doctors and my friends. I will 
go on, despite all this metal and everything I have endured until now. I 
must remain strong for Peter, for Phil, for Moira and for myself. I must!!"



She wiped a tear from her slim, tanned and lovely face as she turned to the 
bedroom, the clink of chains between her legs and wrists playing their 
percussive songs for her again.
From the living-room radio, Anna Moffo was singing the immortal "Un bel di 
verdremo" from Puccini's Madama Butterfly. The haunting crescendo of 
passion, heartbreak, promise and loneliness filled her little white bungalow 
with anguish and longing as Cio-Cio-san sang her heart out waiting futilely 
for her unfaithful lover, Lieutenant Pinkerton, to return.
Outside, clouds gathered on the grey, rugged Scottish landscape. Isabel felt 
alone and utterly bereft.
"No, Jayne," Peter replied to his beautiful woman, sitting at the dresser in 
front of him in their Grosvenor Square hotel room. "You most certainly do 
not look like a slut, to me or to anyone else, for that matter. If ankle 
shackles are an expression of your sexual identity, and you desire to wear 
them, then so be it. I have accepted them, as I hope you will, in the long 
term. And if I may say, Miss Beresford-Smythe, you look absolutely smashing 
in them. They look made for you, you wear them well and you look more 
womanly, more lovely, than ever in them to me."
"Thank you, Peter," Jayne replied. "I wore them specially for today - and 
for myself and you - and I appreciate your thoughts and your kindness . . . 
." She came around to him and kissed him lightly on the cheeks and neck and 
Peter felt a thrill of arousal course through his 19-year-old loins once 
again.
"Are we going out this afternoon?" Jayne asked coquettishly, eyeing the 
bulge in the bedsheets between his legs.
"Yes, let's go," Peter replied, as he hurried into the bathroom to shower 
and clean up.
Half an hour later, they were downstairs in the lobby, listening to a quiet 
Schubert violin trio on the piped-in music system while they waited for a 
cab. Peter was dressed as before, in blazer, white shirt, grey flannels and 
shiny black loafers; Jayne wore a beige, almost floor-length summer dress 
with a small slit up the left that showed intriguing glances of her ankle 
shackle and its chain as she sinuously walked across the carpeted, 
mahogany-panelled foyer.

A business-suited elderly gentleman harrumphed from behind his Financial 
Times in the plush lobby armchair as Jayne rustled by on her lover's arm.
"These women today. Gadsir, what they wear and why they wear them, chains of 
all things, is beyond me," he said to himself, after he caught a glimpse of 
Jayne's chains over the pages of his paper. Snorting and snuffling, he went 
back to his stocks and bonds listings.
Outside the brass-framed glass front doors, the boxy, black Austin taxi 
pulled up smartly and Peter gallantly helped Jayne into the spacious back 
seat, calling out "39 Cromwell Place South, Knightsbridge, please." Jayne 
had heard of the address before and knew it was one of the most-expensive 
gemstone and jewellery stores in Knightsbridge with rings starting at 500 
pounds.
Jayne cuddled Peter's right arm and smiled, knowing herself to be loved and 
looked after by this handsome, young sailor. She hoped she was equal to the 
events and commitment that lay ahead.

BACK TO ISABEL
"What to wear? What to wear?" Isabel said resignedly. "Peter and his new 
girlfriend are coming up early next week and I have to take two days to 
decide what to wear. All because of these blasted chains!"
The heavy, implacable silver chains, affixed permanently to her wrists, 
bosom and ankles, together with her new, 48G-25-36 figure acquired during 
her slavery days, had significantly reduced the type of clothing she could 
wear.
Weeks ago she had sadly given away all her lovely silk blouses her late 
husband was so fond of, realizing she could no longer put them on ever 
again, chained as she was. Trousers, slacks pantsuits and blue jeans were 
obviously things of the past.

She could wear skirts and some specially-tailored dresses to drape down to 
her ankle shackles and cover that pesky, 30-in.-long perpendicular chain to 
her vaginal ring, if she chose, but her tops were limited to the halters and 
tube-tops favored by younger women in the summer.
She was also extremely limited in the underwear department: her one-and-only 
38C underwire bra was now in the trashcan after Isabel had tried painfully 
to squeeze her heavy, new breasts into it. She had never liked underwires in 
the first place and tossed the garment, deciding last week she would do 
exercises and go braless indefinitely, if need be.

Panties and tights, too, were out of the question but she felt she had 
better get used to the cool, free feel under her dresses and skirts that 
shocked her in the cool Scottish mornings that also made her chains feel 
damp and clammy against her warm flesh.
Flicking through her garment rack, she finally picked out a dark-blue, 
knee-length rayon dress, with a low back and neck loop, to wear for Peter's 
and Jayne's arrival in a couple of days. Placing it neatly on the bed, she 
checked it over although she knew it would fit very snugly on her bosom.
The dress passed Isabel's critical examination and she held it against her, 
looking once again in the bedroom mirror to try and recall what her 
38C-25-36 figure she had last year, before it was so dramatically and sexily 
remodelled, against her wishes, by that mad surgeon in northern Scotland in 
the fall of 1975 (details in The Perilous Adventures of Isabel and Moira).
Somewhat satisfied she had made the right choice, she pulled her dressing 
gown more closely around her shoulders with her chained hands and phoned her 
friend, Moira, to discuss the reports they had received recently from her 
family physician and psychologist.

Isabel Metcalfe and Moira MacPeak had been admitted to Royal Edinburgh 
Hospital for observation, tests and assessments after their kidnapping and 
rescue The specialists found them to be in good physical condition but the 
36- and 34-year-old women clearly had been psychologically traumatized by 
their seven-months' slavery, the rescue, escape and the deaths of their 
husbands in the Ushwant desert.
Nevertheless, they were responding well to therapy at the offices of Dr. 
Peter Hayward and Dr. Eoin MacDougall, the best clinical psychologists in 
Edinburgh, and the doctors were treating their Isabel and Moira with the 
utmost respect, professionalism and confidentiality as their sexy patients 
had poured their hearts out to them.
The clinicians, who had taken copious notes, had agreed the women's accounts 
of their epic desert adventures had reached the limits of human will and 
endurance.
They were touched by the women's uncompromising details which underscored 
the determination, fortitude, and resourcefulness that brought them through 
to the end and back home, chained but still safe.


Doctor Hayward and Doctor MacDougall, both single in their late-30s, found 
it challenging not to become emotionally attached to Isabel and Moira as 
their stories deepened and details emerged of their harrowing bondage and 
exploits in the desert. But always pleasantly professional and highly 
ethical, the psychologists recognized early on they were probably dealing 
with post-traumatic stress disorder symptoms and organized and phrased their 
therapy and question-and-answer periods around that primary diagnosis.
Dr. Hayward told Isabel at their first meeting his goals were to establish 
trust, safety, and to "earn a right to gain access" to her 
carefully-guarded, traumatic thoughts and memories. Dr. Hayward leaned 
forward in his chair, engaging Isabel's sad, haunted eyes and said:

"Mrs. Metcalfe, you and Moira clearly have been to hell and back. I, as your 
psychologist, am here to help you and I want you to remember this. Starting 
today, you and I are will be taking a trip, so to speak, into the innermost 
reaches of your memory, your recollections and thoughts, your experiences, 
your value systems - your inner self. And we will get there together by 
following a recognized, trauma-focused program that will allow me to explore 
your 'traumatic material' in depth."
Isabel pushed her handcuffs away from her wristbone and eased her steel 
collar up her neck slightly for comfort as Dr. Hayward continued:
"Mrs. Metcalfe, we will concentrate on your 'intrusive recollections' and 
thereby assist you in disconnecting from the trauma and reconnecting with 
your family, your friends and society.
Isabel had a few questions about the duration and number of office visits he 
anticipated (three times a week for 26 weeks, at least); the cost (covered 
by the National Health Service), and what he thought she should wear to his 
office (his secretary had given her a envious glance when she first clinked 
into the reception/waiting area a week ago. Dr. Hayward insisted Isabel 
should wear whatever she chose and that he would have a polite, firm word 
with Miss Primm, his secretary.
He wrote a 60-day prescription with repeats of 20 mg imipramine, an 
antidepressant she would take three times a day to help ward off her 
nightmares, anxieties and reclusiveness.
Dr. Hayward extended his right hand kindly and Isabel shook it gladly, 
grateful that she was early on the road to recovery.

Isabel's and Moira's next office consultations were in four days and now 
Isabel was looking forward to her reunion with Peter and Jayne in two days, 
a far-better antidote than the brain-numbing little pills she choked down at 
breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Isabel, dressed in blue-denim skirt, halter top and sandals, clinked and 
clattered out of the bedroom to the living room and slipped into her 
favorite easy chair, turned off the radio, flipped on the telly, put her 
chained feet heavily up on the ottoman, crossed her ankles and watched the 
dreary Saturday afternoon BBC broadcasts on a rainy, cool afternoon in early 
August.
Gloom shadowed her tanned, slim face but she brightened slightly at the 
thought of seeing Peter and Jayne, for the first time, early next week.
Once again, she reached over with her chained hands to the coffee table with 
the three-page letter from Royal Edinburgh Hospital to her psychologist 
concerning the observations, tests and assessments a team of experts had run 
on her and Moira recently.
Isabel put on her reading glasses and pored over the precise, professional 
prose.

ROYAL EDINBURGH HOSPITAL
Morningside Terrace
Edinburgh, Scotland EH10 5H5

July 5, 1976

Dr. Peter Hayward, PhD (psych.)
The Medical Centre
High Street
Edinburgh, Scotland EH09 5K4

Dear Doctor Hayward: References: Mrs. Isabel Metcalfe
NHS No.5357620-26781

Thank you for referring this pleasant, 36-year-old woman to us for 
investigation and assessment with respect to surgical removal of steel rings 
and chains from her breasts and labia majora.

Mrs. Metcalfe was seen by members of our x-ray department, 
obstetrics/gynaecology unit, Dr. Peter Smith, a plastic surgeon, and Dr. 
Norbert Kraft, an orthopaedics/ neurology specialist, during her July 3 - 5, 
1976, in-patient stay at this hospital. 
The specialists' reports are attached (26 pages).

X-rays were done first to define the positions, depth and breadth of the 
metal-rings' insertions and the radiologist's report, and recommendations, 
are attached. The ob/gyn specialist, who conducted a complete workup and 
pelvic examination, shows she is not pregnant but was subject to rigorous 
sexual activity at least three months ago with no infirmities that require 
medical attention. Her report provides all information on the tests, 
observations and conclusions as well as recommendations for further 
follow-up consultation.

The report by Doctor Smith concludes it will be virtually impossible to 
remove the apparently surgically-implanted rings and chains without risking 
permanent nerve damage and disfigurement to underlying nipple, breast and 
vaginal tissue. The nipple rings, which are connected by a 14-in. chain, 
were inserted by cautery or other high-heat process, and although the pierce 
wounds, close to the aureolae, have healed fully, removal of the 3/16th-in. 
thick rings would require deep incisions thereby risking nerve and 
structural trauma. As well, her pair of vaginal rings, the lower of which is 
connected by chain to her unusual ankle shackles, are deeply imbedded with 
bilateral, surgically-precise labial incisions, and the surgeons have 
recommended leaving them in place for the same reasons.

She reports normal sensations to pinprick, touch and warmth at these areas 
presently.

Further, it is well-recognized in medical literature that axillary 
breast-augmentation implant removal carries severe risk of nerve damage, 
disfigurement and post-operative complications. As her breasts and saline 
implants are healthy by all assessments, and causing her no distress, it is 
also recommended not to intervene surgically. The patient concurs. Doctor 
Smith has also recommended leaving the healed, one-in.-square brand of a 
cursive Ushwanti ideogram which appears on the interior lateral of her left 
breast. Removal and skin graft would cause more disfigurement than 
necessary. Mrs. Metcalfe concurs.

Dr. Kraft, in his report, has appended a list of exercises, including pelvic 
floor muscle-group strengthening manoeuvres, lower-back strengthening 
measures and vaginal dilatation with stents. She is recommended for a 
program of physical therapy to ensure the appropriate muscle groups are 
toned and strengthened to adapt to her changed posture and gait imposed by 
her steel restraints and large, submuscular breast implants; although, he 
observes, she has very little problem walking, lifting, sitting or 
exercising at this time and is in good physical form. Dr. Kraft estimates 
Mrs. Metcalfe's chains, shackles and rings weigh a total of 2.2 kg (4.84 
pounds) and her breast implants each weigh 2.0 kg (4.4 pounds = 8.8 pounds). 
These additional, disproportionate weights on on her small frame will 
require Mrs. Metcalfe to undertake a regime of physical conditioning and 
weight training which are, of course, in her best interests.

The hospital tried every means at its disposal to sever the rings, wrist and 
ankle shackles and collar by mechanical means and by a specially-prepared 
cutting torch but her attachments defied each of the 15 attempts. On 
magnified examination afterwards, in fact, no marks could be identified 
where the cuttings took place. 


The hospital is aware the metallurgy division of the University of Edinburgh's 
engineering faculty has done scientific and spectroscopic studies of Mrs. 
Metcalfe's shackles and has not been able to identify the metal in the Periodic 
Table of Elements.

Mrs. Metcalfe was advised of our medical assessments, diagnoses and 
recommendations and informed Dr. Smith and Dr. Kraft she would discuss the 
reports further with you at your earliest convenience.

Mrs. Metcalfe, a cooperative, lucid and intelligent woman, informed us her 
handcuffs, collar and leg shackles and appending chains were attached 
without consent during an "alien encounter" in June 1975 and during a 
subsequent kidnap to East Africa, from where she escaped earlier this year, 
at the tragic cost of her husband's life.

Mrs. Moira MacPeak, a friend of Mrs. Metcalfe who was with her during that 
time (and also lost her husband), was apparently chained and shackled in an 
almost identical manner. Mrs. MacPeak was also examined by our staff and 
specialists and their reports have been sent to her psychologist under 
separate cover.

This information is being forwarded to assist in your ongoing efforts to 
rehabilitate Mrs. Isabel Metcalfe from her psychological traumas in East 
Africa during the past several months. She is welcome to telephone the 
hospital at any time during business hours, 8 a.m. - 5:30 p.m., Monday - 
Friday, and book an office consultation with any of the specialists she has 
seen. We would be most happy to see her again and assist in any way we can.

I trust the foregoing, and attachments, will be satisfactory. If you need 
further information, please do not hesitate to contact the undersigned.

Yours sincerely,

Haggis MacBagpipe

Haggis MacBagpipe, MD
Chief, Medical Services

attachments

cc - Dr. Eoin MacDougall, PhD (psych.), The Medical Centre
       Dr. Michael Ledstone, PhD, MEng, University of Edinburgh

Isabel sighed and slipped Dr. MacBagpipe's three-page letter, with her 
pencilled underlines, back on the stack of papers on her coffee table. 
"Virtually impossible to remove the apparently surgically-implanted metal 
rings and chains, eh?" she repeated to herself. "Nerve and structural trauma 
risks? We'll see about that.
"There's more specialists around than those doctors. But then, those severe 
post-op complications; aw-h-h-h, I don't know; maybe just leave 'em in until 
I find another man who likes his woman chained and ringed up for good."

She reached for her small scotch and soda, popped her lunchtime "mip" as the 
overture to "Coronation Street," her favourite "Geordie-land" soap-serial, 
started up. She took off her eyeglasses and watched the hour-long show with 
interest.

MEANWHILE . . .
Back in London, the taxicab had pulled up in front of the trendy 
Knightsbridge jeweller's, Peter paid the driver and held Jayne's arm as she 
slipped out of the cab with some effort, determined to hide her chains from 
traffic along the busy Knightsbridge street and sidewalk packed with 
Saturday afternoon shopper-gawkers.
Jayne smoothed her dress down and clinked her way up onto the sidewalk and 
into the jewellery store. Inside, they were served by an efficient, 
business-suited staff and after an hour of deliberation, choices and 
decisions, Jayne and Peter had picked out a one-carat tulip gold ring, worth 
1,000 pounds.
Peter paid for it on the spot with a billfold of American Express 
travellers' cheques he had been carrying in anticipation of this big event.
"Oh, Peter, it's gorgeous; so big and so-o-o expensive!" Jayne cried. "Look 
at the way it refracts the light inside. It glows!" She flung her arms 
around him in front of the store staff who tried to avert their glances at 
her impulsive display of affection and hugged him hard, sniffling into his 
ear: "I love you, dearest, and I want to marry you as soon as we can."
"Jayne, will you marry me? Please?" Peter whispered, as the male and female 
store staff looked on from a discreet distance, trying not to notice but 
wishing they, too, were as young as this charming couple. One of the 
salesladies, snuffling into a handkerchief at the spontaneous burst of joy, 
noticed Jayne's left ankle shackle peeking out through her hemline but she 
kept it to herself, wondering what sexy tricks this happy, young couple were 
up to.







The transaction completed and with a bouquet of roses and champagne from the 
store staff, together with an impromptu photo session with the sales staff 
and store owner, Peter and Jayne left and strolled down Buckingham Palace 
Road, looking at the Queen's residence in the grey distance where Peter and 
his brother and the MacPeak boys had an appointment to be invested with the 
Distinguished Service Medal.
"I feel as rich as 'Lillibet'," Jayne said, looking at Buckingham Palace in 
the distance. "You could not have ever bought me greater pleasure, 
satisfaction and joy as you have this day, Peter. I am deeply moved and I 
will be forever grateful to you and for your love."
"You're welcome," he replied. They held hands as Peter slowed his pace to 
match Jayne's progress down the busy thoroughfare. Jayne's chains had 
disappeared from her consciousness.
An hour later they were back in their hotel room making plans for the trip 
to Scotland next day and Jayne had decided to keep her chains on throughout.
Towards suppertime, Jayne put on her best long, low-cut evening gown for 
Peter's attention and approval (he did) and they descended together, arm in 
arm, top the lobby an dining room.
Jayne and Peter turned heads of diners and staff alike as they walked 
gracefully into the dimly-lit, expensively-decorated and -appointed dining 
area. After a sumptuous meal of Dover sole amandine, roast potatoes, 
mixed-vegetable medley and an expensive Reisling, Peter and Jayne retired to 
their hotel room to stretch out and watch a little telly before retiring.
Tomorrow would be a full day driving to Scotland and they wanted to be 
well-rested for the trip ahead. As well, Jayne wanted to look her best for 
her first presentation to Peter's attractive mother. Peter had shown her a 
snap (on page 10) of his mum from earlier days and Jayne thought she was one 
of the most attractive women she had ever seen.

Isabel's casual, light brown hair matched her hazel eyes and her slim face 
and freckled complexion were visions of loveliness. Her bare shoulders 
suggested delights only the photographer, Peter's late father, would know. 
Isabel's gaze to the left suggested to Jayne a woman of determination, depth 
and inner strength and conviction - a woman not to be trifled with, but a 
woman to respected, loved an admired.

She was only 22 and began feeling a little anxious about meeting this 
36-year-old widowed mother of two. Tomorrow.
Intent on another sexual interlude, the pair, exhausted from the day's 
events, chose instead to slumber nude in each other's arms until the alarm 
clock clattered them awake at 7 a.m.
Sunday, August 8, 1976, dawned cool and misty over the ancient City of 
London as Peter and Jayne stirred to the early-morning light that 
illuminated their expensive hotel room on the 6th floor of the Europa Hotel 
at Grosvenor Square.
Jayne had not worn her long, light-blue nightgown to bed and it was still 
neatly in place, folded at the foot of the bed, as the lovers had fallen 
asleep in each other's arms early the night before, Jayne's chained ankles 
tangled loosely around Peter's. Jayne got herself free and was up, showered 
and dressed in her long, off-white sundress long before Peter emerged from 
sleep and the shadows of Morpheus (the god of dreams in Ovid's 
Metamorphoses).
At 8 a.m., Peter snapped awake and Jayne was quickly at his side, kissing 
him intently into consciousness and arousal at the same time.
"Time to go, lover," she said. "Mrarf," Peter replied as he groggily swung 
his long, muscular legs out of bed to greet the grey Sunday morning. 
"Mraraf, er, g'mornin', Jayne; I loves yer wif all me strengths," he said 
mock-Cockney style. "Gimme yer 'and, 'dere, ducks."
"And I loves yer, too, Peter; let's getcher dressed, down to brekkie and on 
the High Road to Scotland.

"Hee, hee; Oh, Ye Tak' th' High Road, an' I'll Tak' the Low Road, an' I'll 
be in Scotland
a-fo-o-re ye," Jayne lilted with a broad smile. "For me and my true love 
will ne'er be the same, on the bonny, bonny road to Loch Lomond," Peter 
chorused.
They hugged again and Jayne sat watching breakfast television on BBC while 
Peter got ready.
Ten minutes later, they were in the dining room enjoying a sumptuous 
breakfast of steamed, fresh kippers, fresh tomatoes, home fries, coffee and 
toast with Stilton and marmalade. After breakfast, they returned to the room 
where Peter called mum at home to inform her they were leaving.

They checked out and, seven hours later, were driving into the laneway of 
the neat, little white bungalow in the highlands of western Scotland where 
Isabel waited for them anxiously in the living room with tea and scones.
She had carefully washed her hair, put on her best makeup, lightly applied 
with a deft, chained hand, and slipped easily into the little dark-blue, 
low-backed dress she and her late husband, Peter, were so fond of during the 
summer months.
She checked her appearance and fetching, deep decolletage in the hallway 
mirror one last time and gave her big tits a skilful, little boost with her 
chained hands as she heard their footsteps, and a distinct, familiar clatter 
of chain, on the front step as Peter and Jayne walked up to the front door.
Isabel looked like a suntanned, trim, buxom and chained Hollywood starlet 
with cleavage to die for and she was determined to let Peter and his fiancee 
see her as she really was - a knockout - in her modest estimation. She wore 
light-red lipstick, little makeup, a touch of eyeshadow and her new, 
knee-length dress fit her sexy, braless body perfectly. Not overly sexy but 
it did not diminish the sights of her magnificent bosom that contrasted 
sharply with her small, five-ft. 4-in., 122-pound frame, or her chains, to 
any degree.

Her steel collar on her slim, deeply-tanned neck, her sturdy, 12-in. 
handcuffs and the long chain that depended from under her hemline to the 
mid-point of her ankle chain made her look helpless and in difficulty but 
the reality was different than the vision -- Isabel was determined not to 
let her bondage and sexy, new body interfere with the happy reunion.
She smiled as she thought Peter's eyes would pop when he would see his 
"new-look" mum but she was not sure how Jayne would react when she opened 
the door.
A few seconds later, she found out: Peter hugged his mother affectionately 
and gave her a warm kiss while Jayne, in her ankle chains, stood by 
nervously. Isabel released Peter's neck from her chained handcuffs and 
turned and extended both hands to Jayne in a warm handshake.
Jayne shook Isabel's right hand with a clatter and clash of chain from 
Isabel's wrists and Isabel responded by clutching her to her soft bosom 
instantly: the future mother-in-law's bond with prospective daughter-in-law 
was beginning to form.

"Come in, come in, you two," Isabel chirped happily. "I want to hear and 
know everything about you, Jayne; and Peter, about your trip to America, on 
the Hermes, wasn't it? Come in and enjoy some tea and fresh scones."
The trio clinked and clashed their way along Isabel's immaculately-polished 
hardwood floors to the plush-carpeted, quiet living room and sat on three 
chairs close at hand.
Two hours later, after a few tears, much laughter and many frank and 
colorful admissions from Jayne, Peter and Isabel, all three were fast 
friends and becoming extremely fond of each other.
Isabel had introduced her oldest son to Jayne as her "hero" who, together 
with her late husband, Peter Sr., and Graham MacPeak and his sons, Harry and 
Hiram, had rescued her and her best friend, Moira Edna MacPeak, from their 
slavery in the Ushwant desert.

Jayne and Peter looked agog and with tear-brimmed eyes as Isabel gently 
tugged the bodice of her dress away from inner curve of her left breast to 
show them her brand, a cursive Ushwanti ideogram meaning "slave - beast of 
burden."
"Yes, the bastards branded Moira and me as slaves but they do not know, nor 
will they ever know, that Scotswomen can never, ever, be subjugated or 
indentured," Isabel said with conviction. "We are a proud people - always 
have and forever will be - and I will never be known by, or called, by that 
history-cursed word, 'slave', again."
She patted her dress back into position and continued:
"Fortunately, no one knows what the brand means; only someone who is 
familiar with the Ushwanti alphabet may be able to decipher it, and that, my 
dears, is my first, little secret of the night."
Jayne, at once appalled and excited about Isabel's brand and her comments, 
had been wondering when she could interject with her questions about her 
fantasy about steel bondage to Peter's now-experienced mum but demurred, 
sensing the time would present soon enough.
Unknown to Jayne, Isabel had already recognized Jayne's unusual gait, to 
which Isabel had become accustomed, and she, too, was waiting for the best 
moment to talk about this lovely Hampshire bank teller's predilection to 
steel bondage At the moment, Jayne was intent on getting to know this 
lovely, chatty, chained Scottish beauty before her.
Isabel's eyes were soon drawn to the large stone on Jayne's ring finger.
"My what a beautiful ring that is, Jayne," Isabel said. "Are you two now 
formally engaged? You haven't told me a word yet, we've been so busy 
chattering about each other."
"Yes, mum, we bought the ring yesterday at Knightsbridge; it was a small 
fortune but it's not worth half of what I have in Jayne and what she has 
given me in return," Peter said proudly. "We're in love, mum, and we plan to 
get married as soon as the time is right."
"Oh, my, I'm so glad for the two of you," Isabel said, clasping her hands 
together with a small clink. "

To think: I'll be a mother-in-law for the first time. Mmm and I'm only 36. I 
always thought mothers-in-law would be a wee bit older but you are such a 
young, lovely couple and you have your whole life ahead of you.
"Jayne, my word: what are your thoughts about marrying a sailor? You know 
they do get deployed at sea, often for months at a time. I know you must 
have thought about that little reality, haven't you?" Isabel said in her 
perspicacious manner.
Jayne thought and was at a loss for words.
"Er, ah, I don't know, Mrs. Metcalfe, uh, I mean, Isabel; we haven't thought 
that far ahead just yet and I . . . . "
"Would you two like a drink?" Isabel responded adroitly. "I have some whisky 
and soda there on the sideboard and . . . . "
"Yes, please," Peter and Jayne chorused, Peter remembering his mother's 
taste in the finest highlands Scotch whisky. Isabel excused herself and 
clinked her way to the sideboard to pour three small whiskies with a little 
soda - no ice - and returned with the three crystal glasses on a small 
silver tray in her chained hands.
Isabel moved with such decorous ease, Jayne noticed, and she could not take 
her eyes off the lovely woman's graceful movements in such heavy, implacable 
chains. It must have taken her months to practise walking like that to make 
it appear so natural, so fluid, so graceful, Jayne thought. I wonder if I 
would ever be able to walk like she does with these clunky chains?
"And here's to the three of us," Isabel toasted cheerfully. "Scots' wha' 
hae! Hee-hee."
All three gathered to clink their glasses in a toast to each other and each 
resumed their chairs and silence fell while their thoughts and recollections 
came to roost.
Isabel thought: "What a wonderful gift for Peter to bring this lovely, young 
woman home to meet me. And engaged already! What next? I hope Jayne doesn't 
wear those chains of hers under her bridegown when the day comes. I have a 
better pair for her, if she wants them."

Jayne thought: "I hope I will make a positive impression on Mrs. Metcalfe, 
er, Isabel. I hope she doesn't think I'm being too forward coming all the 
way up here with my dumb ankles chained all the time. And that blasted key 
is still at home! Goll-ee!"
Peter: "Mon, this whisky is good! I hope mum will pour another round. Migod, 
mum and Jayne look smashing today. I wonder how her therapy's going with Dr. 
Whatsisname? Oh, aye; Hayward."
Isabel finally broke the silence: "I'm roasting a rack of lamb with 
rosemary, garlic roast potatoes and peas for supper, you two. I don't know 
about you but I'm famished. These pills I'm taking may make me groggy but 
they spur my appetite when they wear off and I think I've put on five pounds 
since I got home from . . . . "
"You look absolutely lovely, mum, still and always," Peter said. "That dress 
does wonders for you, you know. And where do those five pounds appear on 
you? I don't see any difference from the day you, me and Phil got home after 
dad's funeral and all."
Peter gulped at his faux pas, hoping he did not throw cold water on the 
reunion.
"Jayne, do you care for German white wine or white Bordeaux with the rack of 
lamb?"
Isabel said.
"I'm fond of the Rhine wines, Mrs. Metcalfe . . . "
"Isabel!" Peter's mother said lightly but emphatically. "Please, no 
formalities here this weekend. My name's Isabel, or Is., for short, Jayne. 
You can call me Is., or call me for supper. Hee-hee. Peter, you can still 
call me mum."
Isabel brightened and beamed as Jayne blushed and lowered her head, thanking 
Isabel tacitly for such congeniality and her easy, pleasant manner.
"Mum, may I have another drink, please?" Peter asked. "After supper, son," 
Isabel replied. "There's wine with the meal and one whisky is enough to whet 
the palate for supper. You probably drink too much for your own good on 
board ship, anyway; give your liver a rest, laddie."
"Aye, aye, mum," Peter replied with a smile and salute.

Jayne and Isabel retreated to the kitchen in a clash of chains and Jayne 
realized Isabel must now know of her steel ankle accoutrements. The two 
women, 36, and 22, worked together as a pair to get the supper ready and, 
after half an hour of puttering in the kitchen and small talk, with Jayne 
taking mental notes on Isabel's skills with chained hands and ankles, the 
savoury dinner was ready on the table.
"Supper's ready, Peter," Isabel called. Soon, the three were filling their 
plates and glasses and two hours later, the dessert dishes and coffee cups 
were removed and it was time for relaxing chat again in the living room.
"This is my best opportunity to talk to Isabel about bondage and chains," 
Jayne said to herself. "We're all full, content and quiet and I hope Isabel 
is amenable to discussing these intimate sorts of details. But let's find 
out."
A few moments later, after thanking Isabel politely for the delicious 
dinner, Jayne got her nerve up:
"Isabel, you've probably noticed by now that I have been wearing ankle 
shackles. And this is in no way intended as a slight or a joke. We have come 
here, first of all, to share news of our engagement and I've also a second 
mission.
"With your permission, I would like to draw from you some personal insight 
on why I am fascinated by steel bondage. I have admired the way you have 
coped with your steel and I would like to draw on your experiences and your 
knowledge so that Peter and I can learn from you and participate in, and 
enjoy, steel bondage. On me, that is.
"I don't want to pry but your circumstances have been public knowledge for 
months. Of course, if you would rather not talk about this, I will clam up 
and die a thousand deaths.
But could we talk about bondage for just a few minutes, just us three? 
Please?"
Jayne hoped she did not sound too whiney.
Isabel immediately recalled a similar conversation she had with Sheila 
Baker, proprietor of the Balmoral Hotel, months and months ago and she hoped 
this would not turn into one of her dreaded flashbacks.


"Jayne, and Peter, I have some strong thoughts about the nature and history 
of women in bondage and I am glad to be able to share them with you. As my 
psychologist, Dr. Peter Hayward, told me, I should 'ventilate' my 
experiences to help me 'disconnect from the trauma and reconnect with 
family, friends and society', I think he said."
Isabel then began to recount in detail the events of the night of June 11, 
1975, when she was mysteriously drawn into an alien spacecraft to emerge an 
unknown time later unharmed but with unremovable steel ankle shackles with 
an 18-in. chain and 11/2-in. heavy steel rings pierced through her nipples 
(detailed in Through Night to Light). She described in less-lurid detail the 
subsequent kidnap and flight into bondage and indentured sexual slavery in 
the Ushwant desert just days later and, in less detail again, the other, 
more traumatic events of her and Moira's bondage, slavery and escape from a 
sheikh's desert palace compound and sugarcane plantation.

The Metcalfe's oak mantel clock chimed 10 p.m., two hours and 45 minutes 
later, when Isabel stood, turned to Jayne and Peter and pointed to each of 
her steel-grey restraints:
"This steel collar can never be removed but the half-link you see on the 
front will hold only a piece of jewellery, never a chain again. It will 
never again live up to its role as a piece of bondage -- as an icon of 
slavery -- it has been reduced to the status of an unusual feminine 
accessory . . . jewellery.
Lifting her chained wrists, she said: "These cuffs also can never be removed 
but the 12 inches of chain you see are merely decoration which causes me 
only slight inconvenience. I have had to alter my wardrobe because of them 
but little more."
Looking down at her heavy, braless bustline, with the firm, twin nubs of her 
steel-pierced nipples poking hard through the thin dark-blue rayon, Isabel 
said:
"My breasts have been surgically enlarged and my nipples have been pierced 
and chained in permanency. But what the perpetrators, who are either dead or 
behind bars now, did not realize is that they have so emphasized my 
womanhood and my sexuality that the chains and rings are merely decoration 
to me; they serve no useful purpose other than to excite and, maybe, hold me 
together when I'm doing the gardening." Isabel smiled.

Lifting her left leg a few inches, she said: "These ankle chains and this 
connecting chain that goes up to here," she said, pointing to her lower 
abdomen where the top end linked into her lower vaginal ring, "are a 
different story. Every time I walk, move, sit, stand or breathe, I hear a 
rustle, a clink, a caress or chafe of steel, and I am reminded daily of my 
ankle and leg chains.
"These have been the most difficult articles of my bondage to come to terms 
with. But the reality is, I will have to take 18-in. strides for the rest of 
my life - not a big deal - and the chain running up between my legs now is 
more nuisance than anything. And, once in a while, they do turn me on," she 
said with a small smile.

"And that, dear Peter and dearest Jayne, is all I want to say about my 
recovery and progress to accept my chains as part of my person, as part of 
who I am. The stories about how my ankle cuffs and chain first appeared on 
me by alien hand and process, in June 1975; then the collar, handcuffs, 
rings and additional chains that were welded to me three months later, while 
I was unconscious, and then transformed that mysterious night in the desert 
into their present, permanent state, have been reported widely in newspapers 
and scientific journals.
"But the woman to whom they are attached is still the same person she was 
before all this began late that night in June last year. I may have changed 
in appearance, and I may be chained, possibly forever, but I am still Isabel 
Metcalfe, determined forge ahead with my life, accept the challenges, deal 
with them and move on."
Isabel winced at the word forge, recalling the Ushwant desert chaining 
experience, as Jayne and Peter listened intently as Isabel went on, a small 
scotch in her left hand.
"An eccentric Greek playwright, Euripedes, wrote in 500 BCE that: 'This is 
slavery, not to speak one's thought,'" Isabel said.
"I was a slave but only in a physical sense - my spirit and heart were still 
free - and I was then, and am still able today, to speak my thoughts. To be 
able to speak freely is to be free of slavery and I think Mr. Euripedes 
would agree.
"I have spoken at length about my experiences with my psychologist, Dr. 
Peter Hayward - a wonderful man - and he and I have done some research into 
the subject of women in bondage and slavery.
"Peter, er, Dr. Hayward, is an excellent clinician, single, too, I might 
add, and I will tell you more about him later. But first, let me tell you 
what we have learned."
Isabel put down her whisky, fished a cigarette out of her purse on the floor 
and lit it effortlessly with her chained hands. She took a puff and 
continued:

"Our studies at the university and public libraries have led to some 
observations about the conditions of women in chains down the centuries. I 
have made notes and have some of them here with me," she said, reaching with 
a clatter of chain onto the cluttered coffee table beside her armchair for a 
sheaf of notes Isabel had painstakingly typed out for two weeks. "I'll 
begin."
Jayne's imagination was immediately fired; Peter listened politely.
"For 2,000 years, women have delighted in, lived with or cursed being in 
chains or other bondages. I prefer to think, Jayne, that you and me fit into 
the former category. But let us look back for a moment.
"Ancient Greco-Roman history and authenticated records in some Middle 
Eastern countries show white women were the households' or harems' prized 
slaves - the sultans' favourite, so to speak - and some were kept in silver 
and bejewelled chains for up to 20 years or more." Jayne crossed her chained 
ankles and leaned forward intently, her papers on her lap.
From the culture of ancient Greece, little is known about the numbers of 
female slaves, the nature of their bondage and servitude, or the slaves 
themselves, because the information collected - from plays, philosophical 
tracts, vase paintings and sculptures - were done by males," she said. "What 
is known that slave women were an essential part of the ancient workforce. 
They were routinely chained at hand and foot and assigned to domestic duties 
-- shopping, fetching water, cooking, serving food, cleaning, child-care, 
and wool-working - while male slaves were sent to agricultural and 
industrial work, usually chained, too.
"In wealthy households, some female slaves had more specialized roles -- 
housekeeper, cook or nurse - and because they were owned they were often 
permanently chained and/or branded, like Moira and I were. Their treatment 
and bondage depended on their status in the household and the temperament of 
their owners.

"Not surprisingly, the vulnerable position of the female slave within the 
household often meant she was subjected to sexual exploitation and physical 
abuse. As well, children from of master-slave liaisons were disposed of 
because female slaves were prohibited from raising children, or marrying, as 
marriage was deemed a social privilege of the elite."
Jayne thought she was back in school for a moment, listening to an 
attractive, chained professor expound ancient history. Isabel continued as 
Peter stretched and stifled a yawn:
"Slave women also performed unofficial services," Isabel continued, reading 
from her notes. "Close relationships often developed between female slaves 
and their mistresses because, given the relative seclusion of upper-class 
women in their private homes, and the male-dominated society of ancient 
Greece, many sought out confidantes in their slave girls.
"Euripedes' tragic character, Medea, confided in the early fifth-century BCE 
her deepest feelings with her slave nurse, who advised and comforted her. 
And it is known that slaves always accompanied their mistresses on 
excursions outside of the home, chained or, infrequently, free, depending on 
the whim of the slave's mistress or master.
"And even in the afterlife, tombstones of prominent Athenian women often 
depict scenes of familiarity between the deceased and her frequently-chained 
slave companion.
"It is likely that a sense of their common exclusion from the masculine 
world of public affairs would have drawn women together, regardless of 
class, slave or freewoman. So, the fate of a Greek slave girl or slave woman 
was determined by circumstance and more or less rested in the hands of her 
owners, who had the power to shape her existence."
Isabel stubbed her cigarette, took a sip of whisky and turned the page on 
her lap.
"Women in bondage have had their place throughout history, from ancient to 
present times," Jayne," Isabel said. "Queen Cleopatra of Egypt had herself 
bound in rope and rolled into a carpet to be presented as a gift to Antony, 
emperor of the Roman empire, when Rome was at its zenith of power and 
prestige.
"But did you know that centuries before that, in Persia, a woman by the name 
of Schehrazade voluntarily became a chained thrall who told her caliph a 
different story every night for more than three years so he would spare her 
life? 

"She was allowed to live, so the story goes, but she was never released 
from chains.
"For hundreds of years women of all race creed and culture were captured 
for, or coerced into, harems of countless Middle and Far Eastern men -- and 
women -- of influence and wealth. Many were held, in chains, against their 
will, sometimes for the rest of their lives or until they were rescued, 
freed by other means or died in thrall.
"Did you know that Mozart and Rossini  -- centuries apart -- composed operas such as Abduction 
from the Seraglio and Italian Girl in Algiers about these women's fates? 
Did you know, too, there are well-known statues and paintings of slave women 
in ancient times on public display in museums around the world? And, 
although difficult to find, there are rare autobiographies written by 
apparently-literate slave women or harem girls who probably penned their 
words secretly by candlelight to the sound of their grasping chains, hoping 
against hope they would not be found out."
"But, Isabel," Jayne interjected, "what about women who were cursed to a 
life in bondage; in chains, such as the terrible ordeal you and Moira you 
had, and escaped from, in Africa last year."
Isabel casually lit another cigarette with her chained hands and continued 
her monologue:

"Naturally, there is the still-darker side to woman's experience in steel 
bondage throughout history. Joan of Arc was kept chained in a secular 
military prison for months while she was on trial and was still chained when 
burned at the stake in 1431.
"I'm jumping around now but during the Second World War, 510 years later, 
the evil Gestapo kept female members of the Resistance handcuffed and 
shackled in kneeling positions months at a time to break their spirit and 
convey their ruthlessness to the unfortunates' colleagues. More recently, 
some US prisons have been known to keep recalcitrant, hardened female 
convicts in chains for days, weeks, months on end, and when they appear in 
the electronic media they are always shackled and chained most effectively. 
They are seen from time to time on the 6 o'clock news, entering or leaving 
court for arraignment, hearings, sentencing and so on.


"On the lighter side, for a moment, Dr. Hayward has informed me that some 
women - not all - actually enjoy the sound, the clutch and clatter of chain 
as a prelude to lovemaking. You and I, Jayne, have taken this quirky, little 
preference a step further, from a sexual overture to a fact of everyday 
life.
"I will be quite frank and, Peter, this is not for your ears." Peter quickly 
got up and fetched himself another scotch. "Dr. Hayward has suggested there 
is something in my psychological makeup that compels me to ask to be 
chained, to be bound, to be restrained somehow, by someone I love. Call it 
'loving bondage', call it what you will, but I am making my choice, with 
free will, live in chains for the rest of my life.
"In your case, Jayne, as I understand it, the situation involves free will; 
that you placed your chains on yourself, or had someone put them on for you, 
and that you have decided consciously to continue wearing them.

"For how long depends only on you and your decision. You are evidently a 
mature, young woman, with a responsible position in the bank, and I am 
confident you will make the right decision to accommodate your own desires, 
Peter's wishes and, of course, the exigencies of the workplace. But that's a 
matter for another day and long dresses can hide a litany of sins."
Jayne replied: "I expect I will be making my decision to have these chains 
removed and new ones, which I have seen in a special bondage catalogue, 
either rivetted or welded on.," The 22-year-old poked her left leg out to 
show Isabel her chained ankles finally. Isabel gazed at Jayne's chains, 
looked down at her own and nodded to Jayne to continue.
"I just wanted to get your comments about what it's like to live in chains 
year-round; to live with the reality that they were put on without consent, 
and that they may be on forever. I just need your input before I ask Peter 
to go ahead and order these special cuffs for me. In fact, Isabel," Jayne 
whispered, "I want him to rivet them on me!
Isabel's eyebrows arched but she remained quiet as Jayne spoke more softly.
"Isabel, I am just amazed you have done so much research into bondage and 
slavery through the ages," Jayne said. "I had no idea so many women before 
had such experiences. I would think the prospect of permanent bondage likely 
made them scared, anxious or, quite possibly, excited, at first. But as time 
went on is it possible they came to accept their bondage as a part of who 
they are? As part of their sexual identity?. 
This is what I hope will happen to me.
"Enjoyment of bondage must be purely subjective," Jayne said. "I am a 
neophyte and you, Isabel, are more experienced in this matter. I am 
fortunate that my bondage is painless and, thus, enjoyable. It has to be. I 
could not endure it otherwise.

"I mean, a little discomfort here and there -- mildly-chafed ankles, for 
example -- is tolerable but if you are thinking of long-term, or lifelong 
bondage, as in your case, there has to be a wide comfort zone. There must 
be!"
Isabel interjected: "History will never tell us exactly how comfortable, or 
uncomfortable, Cleo, Schehrazade or the countless other Greek, Roman or 
African slaves were in their bondage - or what they thought - I can only 
speak for myself. I've worn these chains now every day since June 11, 1975; 
today is August 9, 1976, so that is 14 months chains! Fourteen months, 
Jayne!"
Peter walked back into the room and heard his mother say: "Professor Michael 
Ledstone, the metallurgist, has informed me recently that further 
spectroscopies have indicated the metal of all my chains has tensile 
strength and density tens of thousands of times greater than the 
most-refined tungsten-steel alloy - and, therefore, cannot be removed by 
conventional means. He advises even the most-advanced, diamond-bitted 
cutting tools would not make a scratch in them. They were applied with 
extreme heat, apparently, but I was not injured. There are no seams, rivets, 
bolts or hinges anywhere so they are on for good, as far as I know. They 
weigh about eight or nine pounds so there is no problem there, at least in 
the short term.
"I've checked them as closely as I can and the interior surfaces are 
mirror-smooth which ensures my ankles, wrists and neck will never be chafed 
unless, of course, I try to run the 800-metre dash."
The two women giggled as they fished their cigarettes out of their purses 
and lit up again.
After a few minutes, Peter and Jayne both kissed Isabel goodnight, excused 
themselves and walked, hand-in-hand, to his bedroom at the end of the 
hallway.
Undressing, Jayne said to Peter: "Your mother is an intelligent, strong and 
very capable woman, Peter, and you must be very proud of her."
"Of course, Jayne, I love her as much as I am falling in love with you. And 
I heard you talking about having new shackles rivetted on your ankles? 
Really, Jayne, isn't that a bit extreme?"
"Let's talk about it more when we get home."
Jayne Beresford-Smythe, 22, a Barclays bank teller in downtown Portsmouth, 
Hampshire, and Peter Metcalfe Jr., 19, a leading seaman in the Royal Navy, 
lay in Peter's single bed snugly together that first night in Isabel's home.
Jayne, always preferring the woman-on-top position despite her ankle chains, 
took charge again that night and quietly slid on top of her man with a soft 
rustle of her links. She spread her thighs wide and impaled herself on his 
stiff organ with her own strength and began riding him, slowly at first, 
then more vigorously, making the little bed squeak and creak quietly.
Isabel, next door, naked and in bed, alone and nostalgic, was getting mildly 
horny from her long discourse on female slavery. Tuning out the creaky bed 
next door, she reached with both hands for her prescription vaginal stent 
and began stroking her ring-enclosed pussy with the 10-in.-long, 1 
1/2-in.-diameter solid-plastic, ivory-colored probe to enlarge her vagina 
around the enclosing rings.
Gently, with a little rustle of chain, she inserted the dildo-like medical 
device between her upper and lower vaginal rings and began the prescribed 
circular and in-and-out motions Dr. Kraft had suggested. Painfully at first 
until her labia majora eased around the steel rings, the chains and stent, 
she persisted and plunged her "plastic friend" deep into her vagina several 
times before taking a break for lube. The doctors had told her she should 
dilate her ringed vagina six times a day for 40 minutes each - a total of 
four hours of self-fucking, she thought - but she had limited herself only 
to once or twice a night for 25 - 30 minutes each session. It was only 
mildly pleasurable and she dreamed of the time in future when she would feel 
again the "human injection" of a ramrod-stiff cock, like her late husband's, 
deep inside her, that would nestle into her cervix over and over again.
She wondered again whether she would ever get pregnant. She had two lovely 
boys and wanted a third by Peter until it was too late. Could she get 
pregnant again? Could she deliver vaginally? Probably not. Caesarian section 
then? Probably. What would childbirth be like in chains anyway, she 
wondered. She would have to ask that ob/gyn specialist at the Royal 
Edinburgh Hospital.

She played with her ring-hidden clitoris to excite herself a little more but 
always found her handcuffs limited her wrist motions too much. And the noise 
of her chains was a distraction.
These were some of the drawbacks of bondage on her self-stimulation,. She 
knew, but she was determined to adapt and not have to "reinvent the wheel." 
She fell asleep, sexually unsatiated, with the stent buried deep inside her 
the way she liked, and awoke eight hours later refreshed with a full night's 
sleep without prescription drugs.
At breakfast next morning Peter asked his mother if Jayne and he could 
borrow the car to take a tour around western Scotland and that they would be 
back by supper. It was a Monday morning and Isabel had no appointments or 
errands to run. Isabel tossed Peter the keys with both hands and the happy, 
young couple - Peter in dark-blue Royal Navy T-shirt and Jayne in a 
knee-length denim skirt, chains and matching T - took off in the little 
Austin Mini Minor, the same vehicle Isabel had been driving when she was 
abducted and chained by the aliens on June 11, 1975, just two miles west of 
her driveway.
Isabel, at home once again in her quiet, rural bungalow, sighed and pulled 
her housecoat a little closer over her shoulders with her chained hands, 
took her morning "mip" and sipped her tea at the kitchen table. Nude under 
her housecoat as always first thing in the morning, she clinked and 
clattered over to the kitchen sink and began, laboriously and noisily, to 
wash the pots, pans, dishes, glassware and cutlery from last night's 
three-course meal.
Drying her hands and stacking the dishes and kitchenware to dry, her chains 
clashed on the hardwood floor in her quiet house as she walked slowly into 
the bedroom to decide on something to wear:

Her sartorial choices in clothing were extremely limited and she knew it: 
her tops now consisted of halter and tube tops only; a proper, comfortable 
bra to accommodate her heavy, 48G bustline had been impossible to find so 
she firmed up her bustline by shortening her nipple chain with a small, gold 
padlock she found in her jewellery box, giving herself glamorous, if 
bondage-enforced, cleavage.
She chose to wear at- or above-knee denim, flannel or cotton skirts and 
specially-cut dresses that revealed her terrific, 48G-24-36 figure - and her 
chains - as always. 
The fall and winter months would see her reaching for her fashionable, long 
woollen skirts that hid her chains from public view but that was months away yet.
Isabel took several minutes to dress herself and was still self-conscious 
about her appearance, especially her heavy, swaying breasts that still 
bounced against their chains to the movement of her chained steps. She knew 
she would always turn heads whenever she walked in town to her doctor's 
appointments but that was the least of her problems.
Today, she rummaged through a box of her late husband's belongings and came 
across a curious tangle of black-leather straps affixed to a 
three-in.-diameter red rubber ball - an expensive harness ballgag -- he had 
purchased for her on a whim in January 1975. Isabel held it up to her face 
in front of the bedroom mirror and traced the line of straps over her 
cheekbones, up the middle of her forehead and under her chin with connecting 
straps locking in two places behind her neck.
"I prefer to be able to speak my mind," Isabel said aloud and she tossed the 
$150 harness ballgag into the garbage, never to be seen again. "I will never 
again allow myself to be gagged again like I was for months on end in the 
desert. Never!"

Checking her appearance one last time in the bathroom mirror, she walked to 
the living room to begin typing a few more pages of MS for her treatise, 
titled "The Slavery of Women in Western Civilization - from Ancient Greece 
to Modern Times," an investigative work she wanted to turn in to the 
University of Edinburgh's sociology department for comment and publication.
An accomplished typist from her years at the woollen mill, she had adapted 
fairly readily to typing with hands chained 12-in. apart using a brand-new 
IBM Selectric typewriter Dr. Hayward has purchased for her after she had 
agreed to join him in the research project. She sat at the dining room 
table, rolled a sheet of paper into the platen, turned the machine on and 
began transcribing her notes on how female slaves were restrained and 
identified as thralls in ancient Rome.
She had just completed 500 words when the phone jangled in the living room.
She left her work and clinked over to the armchair beside the bulky Scottish 
telephone:
"Hello? Isabel Metcalfe here," she said softly.
"Isabel, Peter Hayward," came the reply. Isabel's eyebrows arched in 
surprise. It was her doctor!
"Today's a banking holiday and I'm wondering if you would care to join me in 
a picnic lunch in Western Highlands national park about noontime? That is, 
if you're free?"
"Oh, Dr. Hayward, I . . . "
"Please, call me Peter."
"Oh, Dr. Peter, eh, ah, Peter, you know I will never be free," Isabel 
replied, with a conscious double-entendre, recalling the double meaning as 
an old Anglo-Saxon riddle she had learned in school.

"Why, yes, I would be delighted to join you in a picnic lunch today. Will 
you come by and pick me up? My son and his fiancee have the car today and I 
have some delightful news to tell you."
"Wonderful!" Hayward enthused. "I will see you then at 12 o'clock sharp and 
we'll motor into the moors. It's a beautiful day today and I would 
especially like to spend a few non-doctor/patient hours with you."
"Shall I bring the manuscript, Dr. Hayward?"
"It's Peter, Isabel; yes, please bring it along and we can edit it together 
over lunch. I have some ideas as well on where to direct our research later 
on, if you would like to hear them."
"That will be fine, Peter; see you at 12 then."
"Right-oh, Isabel. 'Bye till then."
"Goodbye, Peter."
Isabel 's ringed nipples sprang to life and full erection as she rang off, 
her heart leaping into her throat: her first date in months, and with her 
doctor yet!
"Wow," Isabel said, as she caressed her nipples, feeling the light tingle 
around their steel.
"At date, at last," she laughed. "Now, what to wear?"
Isabel clashed and clattered back into the bedroom to decide what to wear, 
nearly stumbling for the first time on her 18-in. ankle chain that tugged 
hard on her vagina-ring connecting chain. She decided on something light and 
casual, sexy but demure at the same time, she hoped: she selected a beige 
halter top, her knee-length denim skirt and sandals.

She stepped into her skirt and carefully shortened the 14-in. chain between 
her breasts to a slightly uncomfortable six-in. bight that gave her the 
cleavage she wanted to show. 
She slipped her halter top on over her neck, did up the three buttons in front 
and checked her appearance. She looked just fine, she thought. Just fine.
It was 9 a.m., Monday, August 11, 1976, and a new chapter in Isabel 
Metcalfe's life was about to unfold in three hours.

Epilog

Isabel's and Peter's picnic was a happy, intimate moment for the couple, in 
their late-30s; Peter's Black Forest ham and Mozzarella sandwiches, sour 
pickles, iced Reisling and cheddar cheese and crackers was delicious and the 
doctor and his patient talked endlessly about psychotherapy, Isabel's 
progress, the research paper and Peter's background. Their conversations, 
under a cloudless, royal blue sky, ranged from the sublime to the 
ridiculous. Peter: "Jayne, I want to start using classical music as a 
psychotherapeutic intervention for your post-traumatic stress disorder." 
Isabel: "Dr. Hayward, er, Peter; what are the mathematical probabilities of 
reducing the UK' spiralling birthrate by having the ankles of all women of 
childbearing years chained until menopause?"
The happy couple returned to Isabel's little white bungalow at evening time, 
kissed romantically and wished each other good night until Isabel's next 
office visit. Romance had begun again for Isabel. And Dr. Hayward.

Peter and Jayne returned from their daytrip hours later, excited and 
exhausted: they had set the date for their civic wedding, Sept. 23, 1977, in 
Portsmouth, England, and insisted on a small church wedding with family and 
a few friends.
Isabel was all smiles when she told them of her picnic with Dr. Hayward and 
Peter, absolutely delighted about this bit of social news, added that he was 
going to inquire about getting RN permanent married quarters in Fareham, 
just outside Portsmouth, for Jayne and himself.
A few weeks later, he was successful in getting a three-bedroom condo and 
Jayne said goodbye to mum and dad in rural Hampshire and moved into the 
comfortable, little three-bedroom abode at Fareham.
After settling into their PMQ, Jayne and Peter had agreed to have her ankle 
chains rivetted on by Peter on their wedding night and that she would wear 
them to work at Barclay's every day thereafter under long dresses and 
skirts. Until that time, her present shackles would do.
On Sept. 23, 1976, Leading Seamen Peter and Philip Metcalfe and Leading 
Seamen Hiram and Harry MacPeak, Moira's boys, were summoned to Buckingham 
Palace where they received the Distinguished Service Medal from Prince 
Philip, the Duke of Edinburgh.
Isabel Metcalfe and Moira MacPeak, chained, proud and tearful, stood in 
silent admiration as the four young boys bowed their heads to receive their 
bravery decorations in the poignant, 10-minute ceremony inside the palace.
The fours sons, stalwart and stoic throughout, were given seven days' 
special leave and Peter and Jayne returned to Scotland to rejoice and 
celebrate their good fortune with Isabel.

In December 1976, doctors Hayward and MacDougall compared notes and found 
Isabel and Moira had progressed slowly but steadily and were well on their 
way to rehabilitation. Their patients' dreams were recurring less and less 
and their daily lives were returning to normal slowly.
Sept. 23, 1977, dawned bright, warm and beautiful over historic Portsmouth 
harbour, the day Peter Metcalfe Jr., 20, would take Jayne Beresford-Smythe, 
23, as his "lawful, wedded bride" at a civic ceremony in city hall chambers. 
Jayne, wearing a calf-length bridal gown, displayed her polished ankle 
shackles for all to see. Isabel Metcalfe, the matron of honour, Dr. Hayward, 
her companion; Moira MacPeak and her sons, Harry and Hiram, made an 
attractive bridal party. Peter's brother, Philip, 19, was best man and 
Isabel, at her sons' side, snuffled her tears as she stood, chained and 
proud with Moira at her side, as the justice of the peace recited the 
solemn, moving ceremony of marriage.
Isabel and Moira sighed and wept quietly as Judge Clarence Morgan said: "Do 
you, Peter Metcalfe Jr., take Jayne Beresford-Smythe as your lawful, wedded 
wife; to love, cherish and hold as long as you both shall live?"
"I do," Peter replied. The judge repeated the words for Jayne and she 
affirmed ":I do."
"Then I now pronounce you man and wife, Pete and Jayne. You may kiss the 
bride."
Jayne's parents, in the background, applauded and Moira and Isabel joined 
the applause, their handcuffs adding a distinct metallic clatter to the 
happy ceremony.
That night, Peter rivetted the stainless-steel shackles on his woman's 
ankles and she was happy and content to be his bondage bride.

Back in Scotland after the wedding, Isabel and Moira began dating their 
doctors, especially after Isabel confided in Moira the wonderful time she 
had with Peter Hayward at their picnic in the highlands during August the 
previous year.
Isabel fell in love with Dr. Hayward; they became engaged in 1978 and were 
married in1980, the same year Moira, who had resigned her job at the woollen 
mill, and her pal, Isabel, were summoned to the town hall to receive bravery 
commendations from the Scottish government - for "courage, fortitude and 
unwavering determination in the face of appalling conditions and events" -- 
in the East African desert four years ago.
In 1981, Isabel and Moira, still in chains and good health, embarked on a 
public-speaking tour to describe, in first-person, the horrific events that 
swept them up in 1975-76. They were interviewed and photographed over and 
over and became the media's sought-after heroines.
In 1992, Moira and Isabel received generous pensions from the government, 
the woolen mill and honoraria from the University of Edinburgh for the 
Haywards' scholarly work on slavery in the ancient world.
Further tests that year by Dr. Michael Ledstone, the metallurgist you met in 
Through Night to Light, showed Isabel's and Moira's collars, handcuffs, leg 
chains, nipple and vaginal rings and connecting chains all were of the same, 
immutable metallic matter that continued to defy scientific explanation.
Still later, Moira married Eoin MacDougall, her doctor, and Mrs. Isabel 
Hayward, as she is now known, and Moira MacDougall, became more financially 
secure than they had ever dreamed. They had tax-free government and 
(taxable) private pensions as well as their husbands' incomes and agreed to 
set up a public relations firm specializing in communications, public 
speaking, self-confidence and assertiveness training.

Today, the women, still buxom, curvy and deeply tanned in their early 60s, 
enjoy a satisfying and fulfilling sex life with their husbands after it was 
discovered that months and years of their chains tugging at their nether 
rings had elongated their labia majora slightly to allow penetration.
The sensations were "wicked," Isabel and Moira told their husbands 
privately, feeling the sensation of metal rubbing against their love canals 
as their husbands screwed the daylights out of their wives. (But they would 
not admit that to anyone; not even you, dear reader).
In 1980, Isabel gave birth by Caesarian section to a healthy, eight-pound, 
10-ounce girl, Carly, who today, at 23, is exploring steel bondage with her 
new boyfriend, Horace Hogg, of Stirling.
Today, Mrs. Isabel Hayward and Mrs. Moira MacDougall can be seen on the 
streets of their little Scottish town every day, coming and going from their 
little storefront office on High Street. They wear their chains decorously, 
with the same aplomb as when they pin their bravery decorations on their 
halter tops every March to mark the anniversaries of their late husbands' 
murders. Long ago, they had adapted their posture and pace to accommodate 
their handcuffs and leg irons and the hospital-recommended weight-training 
regimes and a robust, outdoor lifestyle, gave them the trim, buxom figures 
they wanted.
Small diamond-and-pearl pendants hang from each woman's collar-loop and the 
rest of their chains have become a part of their physical and psychological 
makeups; they were able to accept them during their slavery and, after years 
in the media limelight, Isabel and Moira can easily fend off or ignore the 
few furtive glances and quiet comments that passers-by and their clients 
might display from time to time.

In 1981, Peter and Jayne gave birth to a bouncing baby girl, Wendy Alison 
Metcalfe. Jayne was a curiosity in the Royal Hospital Haslar, Gosport, 
Portsmouth, with her rivetted chained ankles in the delivery-room 
stretcher's stirrups and Peter at her side. She later gave up her position 
at Barclays, where her attractive figure and unusual, chained steps under 
her long skirts had attracted new clients, men and women, by the dozens.
Many men -- and women -- waited long in line to transact their business with 
the lovely, blonde teller in the long skirt with her unusual, hip-swaying, 
breast-bouncing gait and ready smile. No one at the bank knew Jayne's little 
secret until her last day at work when she lifted her hemline to show her 
co-workers the 18-in. shiny shackles that she had worn for the past two 
years.
Isabel and Moira had dressed fashionably and sensibly long before their 
adventures in bondage began in the mid-1970s. Still collared, handcuffed, 
pierced and chained as she had been in 1975, Moira, too, had to adapt her 
wardrobe to accommodate her unremovable chains and shackles. A look inside 


Mrs. MacDougall's closets will show rows of expensive, fashionable dresses, 
skirts and specially-tailored tops cut to slip effortlessly over her head 
and arms, fastening discreetly at her sides.
The knee-length dresses that Moira, Isabel and daughter-in-law Jayne favor 
all have "spaghetti" shoulder straps that fasten with buttons or snaps at 
the tops of their bodices. All three women chose long ago to go braless, 
preferring to exercise and lift weights to retain their figures and tone. 
Jayne, after childbirth, underwent breast-augmentation surgery, at her 
request, to look more like her mother-in-law. And the three women's
48-G bustlines today retain the same, heavy, teardrop shape with which they 
were naturally endowed.
All three are pleased and proud of their sexy, starlet-like figures.

Isabel and Moira have become regular attendees at concerts in Glasgow by the 
Royal Scottish National Orchestra and the Haywards and MacDougalls never 
fail to turn heads at the upscale events when Isabel and Moira turn up in 
their snug, black, form-fitting, floor-length evening gowns that reveal 
their spectacular cleavage, steel collars and handcuffs. Their small 
strides, hidden in the graceful folds of their long dresses, give them a 
sexy, sinuous walk as they take their seats front-row centre once a month at 
the concert hall.
Orchestra members have been known to miss cues and entries as their 
attentions were diverted from their scores and the conductor to the sexy 
pair sitting 25-ft. away.
I know; I was one: I was the tympanist and missed an entry in the coda the 
night the orchestra was accompanying a young female solo violinist in Max 
Bruch's extremely difficult Scottish Fantasy and, well, that's another 
story.
Jayne is content to be a housewife, raising her little girl and socializing 
with her next-door neighbours, all navy wives, who adore talking about 
Jayne's chains and her stellar figure.
Peter attached a 35-ft. long chain to a heavy ringbolt he drilled into the 
living-room floor and Jayne frequently padlocks a collar around her slender 
neck, enjoying the feel of the clutch and tug of chain as she parades around 
her condo, ding housework, tending her daughter, watching TV or yakking on 
the phone.

Today, Isabel's and Moira's bank accounts are reported to be in the 
seven-figure range; they and their husbands live in palatial country houses 
(Carly and Horace moved into the Metcalfe bungalow); they drive Porsches and 
expensive town cars and take extended vacations to Spain each year, 
returning with deep tans that contrast sharply with the virgin-like white 
skin under their steel shackles. The women have avoided travel to Africa 
although they have received invitations from the Government of the State of 
Ushwant to pay a courtesy call, at their expense. Each invitation has been 
ignored.
Are Isabel Hayward and Moira MacDougall free women? Or are they still slaves 
within?
You will have to ask them.

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